


League Shorts

by TCFactory



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Adventure, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Some Humor, Some mopey parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCFactory/pseuds/TCFactory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely connected shorts about the day to day lives of the champions.<br/>Discontinued, rebooted in a different series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sivir, Azir and Nasus - A pigeon walks into a bar

The Institute of War was abuzz with activity, every champion and summoner excited for the Championship. This was the rare time of the year when political alliances meant nothing, old grudges were buried and the champions of Runeterra officially competed as individuals, not as representatives of their countries and nations. Sure, there were numerous matches with mixed teams during the year, but they weren’t serious and they didn’t count.

As nobody bothered to attend to their request, it was unlucky timing for the Shuriman delegation to finally request the forming of an official team, now that they finally had an emperor and something other than sand and the occasional ruin to build an empire on. On the other hand, it gave Azir the much needed time to catch up on history and get to know the Institute. Sivir had a different agenda, so while the ascended emperor was getting acquainted to Jericho Swain and Jarvan IV, the two rulers sharing a drink to bury their usual dislike before the tournament began, she sought out Nasus.

The curator of sands was nursing a drink of his own a bit further away, buried in a heavy tome, but looked up when he caught sniff of the mercenary.

“Ah, the newfound heiress to the empire. What brings you to me, Sivir?”

“Please, don’t call me that. It reminds me that I am related to _him_.” She collapsed onto the seat next to Nasus and gave Azir, still in the company of Jarvan and Swain a weary glance. The golden emperor was very carefully sipping a drink that probably packed a bigger punch than Lee Sin. “Birdbrains. I don’t know what I’ll do to him if he gets drunk.”

Nasus followed her glare.

“He won’t. Not in that company. For all his faults, Azir was never a stupid man.”

“And this is why I’m here: he’s a secretive bastard and I need info on him. You came to this world in his reign, correct?”

“In the very last year of his life. He was considered an unusual ruler. His successor had little trouble painting him an unsuited emperor. It didn’t help that he was assassinated in plain sight either; a most unprofessional way to die.” He turned a page, eyes glued to the text, but most of his attention was still on Sivir.

“Was he busy conquering other nations and let his people starve or something?” Sivir guessed. “He talks about conquest and restoring Shurima’s glory a ton.”

“Oh, no. Quite the opposite. Conquest would have been a sign of greatness. He made plans and strategies for several campaigns, but never got around to go through with them. As I understand, he believed that he can only depart to conquer foreign lands if his empire is standing strong and united. He spent his reign organizing a regular army, setting up peace treaties between the tribes, building caravan routes, trying to figure out how to get the agriculture work in the desert and all sorts of things that, in the views of his time, should be left after one has conquered his fair share of foreign lands. He might have been the greatest strategic mind in the history of Shurima; it’s a pity he never put it to good use.” Nasus looked into Sivir’s shocked face. “Surprised?”

“Very. He’s such an arrogant bastard, I would have never pegged him the type who puts his country before glory.” She looked back at her ancestor, currently crushed in Jarvan’s alcohol-fuelled hug.

“His first action after his resurrection was to save you, was it not? I would give him a chance if I were you. He might be the man Shurima needs to reclaim its rightful place among the other nations.” Nasus lifted his glass in silent toast to the ascended emperor.

“Nasus? Just one last question.” The canine champion hummed an affirmative. “Will you be part of the Shuriman team if we get a green light to form one? I know you are not technically from Shurima, but we need everyone we can get.”

“Of course. I would never miss the chance to fight beside an ascended being. I went ahead and asked Skarner and he agreed to join as well. Azir used to have a very beneficial alliance with his people back in the day and it seems our crystalline friend has long memory.”

Sivir quickly looked around to ascertain that nobody was watching and the ruthless mercenary gave the librarian a fleeting, but very honest hug. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Sivir. We still need Xerath’s agreement and he would only talk to Azir. Let’s hope that our emperor is as versatile in the art of diplomacy as he is in the art of war.”

They watched as Azir showed off his joke, a rather lifelike impression of a pigeon, which prompted Jarvan IV. to fall under the table laughing and Swain to chuckle – _chuckle_ – in a not-exactly-ominous way.

“I believe he will manage.”


	2. Jarvan and Swain - There's no "country" in "team"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixed-nation matches are about building ties between warring nations. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Jarvan, Swain, Beatrice and a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dia is insistently shipping these two, so I like teasing her with ficlets about them slooowly bonding.

It was a fierce battle, both teams going toe-to-toe, inhibitors already down on both sides. The minion waves met near the riverbank, but the two sides were clashing inside the blue base.

This teamfight will decide the fate of the match – if the blue team, currently one man down, could come out on top, they could go straight for the enemy nexus.

Jarvan IV. swung his lance around and wounded Kha’Zix, sending the bug staggering backwards right into Thresh’s Box. To his left, he saw the Chain Warden and Zed take out Janna and Tristana, only to be taken out by Yasuo.

The Exemplar of Demacia wiped the blood from his eyes and tried to rush to the aid of Kog’Maw, but Yasuo and Maokai had already formed up against the creature. The always hungry Kog’Maw went down, but not before sending the Wanderer into an explosive death.

That left the badly wounded Jarvan against Maokai, and the Treant had packed a meaner punch than he would have liked. But fortune favors the brave, so Jarvan lunged at the tree with a battle cry.

It could have gone so wrong. Maokai was good and already had Jarvan on his knees, waiting the finishing blow. It would have definitely gone wrong if it weren’t for the blast of magic coming from behind the warrior. Jarvan IV. looked up to Swain, who was lowering his cane, radiating power after respawning.

“Heal up and catch up to me as fast as you can. We are ending this,” the Tactician rasped before limping away on the middle lane.

Jarvan didn’t waste his time waiting to regain his full health. The enemy team was down, but the minion waves were still on their side of the river and it will take time to push them to the enemy base, even with Swain’s Ravenous Flock. He grabbed his last item and ran to catch up with the Noxian.

He was surprised to find that Swain had passed the minions altogether and headed straight towards the enemy base – the Prince caught up to him by the inhibitors.

“I told you to heal up,” the general snarled at the still wounded Demacian. Jarvan could understand his rage for once; he was in no shape to tank the remaining nexus tower and Kha’Zix was spawning in fifteen seconds.

Swain seemed to be contemplating something. “If you cost me this match, I’m declaring war on Demacia,” the man bit out an empty threat and just as the next wave of minions appeared from the nexus, morphed into his monstrous form and stepped into the range of the tower.

Jarvan caught on quickly and lunged at the tower, putting all of his strength into bringing it down; the flock would keep Swain alive even in the crossfire of the tower and the siege minions, but not for long.

The tower went down and the nexus followed suite, the crystal exploding in bright light just as Kha’Zix lunged at the weakened Jarvan and Swain.

They won. Jarvan could hardly believe it. After the long, struggling battle they have defeated the enemy.

High on battle and victory, the Prince of Demacia grabbed the Tyrant of Noxus, still in his otherworldy form, in a crushing hug, lifting the demon bird off his feet. Swain for his part was too weary to fight it and only this once indulged Jarvan’s enthusiasm, resting his beak on a ridiculous pauldron.

The rush slowly receded and the feathers in his grasp turned back to rough fabric when Jarvan let his teammate back down, but not without keeping a supporting hand on the slighter man’s shoulder. The Master Tactician looked like he would fall over otherwise and Beatrice, currently perching on top of Jarvan’s flagpole seemed to approve of the gesture too.

“It was a good fight,” hissed Kha’Zix at both of them, preening his antennae. “You make a good team, the two of you.”

There was some obligatory denial, but they _did_ work well together, at least this one match. Anyway, to prevent further comments Swain put some distance between himself and Jarvan, his limp even more prominent as he looked for his cane among the rubble. It didn’t take long to find it, broken into pieces among the rocks. The summoners’ magic became null and void a few moments after the battle ended, but as a catch everyone had to return to his/her/its own base to leave the arena. This left the injured tactician limping his way back to the other half of the rift.

On one hand this was good; Noxus and Demacia were sworn enemies, so the grief of a Noxian was good news for a Demacian. The grief of their tyrant even more so.

On the other hand, Swain had been on his team, saved him from (admittedly temporary) death and won them the game when his own foolishness would have cost them victory. Not to mention that he put up with Jarvan’s outburst without comment. And it was the spirit of the championship to set aside their allegiances and build diplomatic ties. Maybe he could take a step in that direction…

But it was too late, Swain was already hobbling his way down mid lane, irritably calling out for his bird to follow. The demon crow was still perched on top of Jarvan’s flagpole and watched the Demacian prince with expectant eyes. When Jarvan didn’t seem to get the hint, she started tearing at the remnants of the Demacian flag, already torn to shreds in the battle and Jarvan finally caught up; without the Demacian colors, it was nothing more than a menacing looking lance and Jarvan judged that it couldn’t be much heavier than Swain’s ceremonial staff – a perfect substitute for the time being.

His father the King always said that he lacked even the most basic grasp of diplomacy. It was time to prove the old man wrong. He hoisted his weapon on his shoulder, tore off the tatters of the flag, grabbed the flagpole, bird and all and started walking after Swain.

Jarvan caught up quickly, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of the Noxian’s crippled leg, or the fact that he regularly stopped to call his crow.

“Here,” Jarvan said, offering the lance and its clingy occupant. “Your bird had taken a liking to it.”

Swain had taken it with a longsuffering sigh. “Beatrice, you’ll be my death one day.” The crow just looked smug and sharpened her beak on the tip.

“I was informed that due to ‘diplomatic reasons’,” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. “Our suites are on the same floor. Come over before breakfast and I’ll supply your equipment back. Gods know, she should grow tired of this new perch by then.”

He gave a parting nod and left, back straight and his gait smoother than before. Jarvan waited a few minutes before following.

There were far too many bridges burned between Demacia and Noxus, but maybe – just maybe – he put down the foundations for a new one today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Please share. Prompts and ideas most welcome.


	3. Sivir and Azir - Change never comes easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azir tries to cope with physical changes that came with his ascension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit angsty.

Sivir knocked and waited for the weary voice to call out.

“Who seeks me?”

“Make a guess. I brought you breakfast,” she answered balancing a well-packed tray.

“Come in, but by all means, be quick to close the door.”

One fine eyebrow rose in suspicion at the request, but she did as asked. It was not the most outlandish of things to ask, knowing the circumstances.

“You wouldn’t believe how much bribery it took to let me take this from the kitchen,” she said, locking the heavy door. “Apparently, only the Voidborn and Renekton were given a pass from eating in the canteen. No wonder. Imagine that slimeball Kog’Maw eating at a table. He’d sooner eat the tableware than to try and use it.”

“I appreciate that you did this for me, Sivir,” answered the occupant of the room and the Battle Mistress could see from his silhouette on the drapery separating the two halves of the small temporary quarters that he bowed his head slightly. “I’m reluctant to dine in the company of the other champions for the time being.”

She left this without comment, mostly because it took a lot of concentration to navigate the cluttered space without knocking something down with the heavy tray. The summoners had assured them that after they finished the rejuvenating spells they planned to cast on the Rift, they’d get to work on the Champions’ Quarters and Shurima would have a whole new wing to call their own. Until those plans were put into practice though, the new champions had to make do with small, bland rooms that made Sivir think of hastily emptied storages. The knickknacks lying around at least made the space look more like home.

She pushed past the heavy drapery and was about to make a barbed comment when she was rendered speechless by surprise.

Somewhere in the rational depths of her mind, she knew that Azir should be able to remove his golden armor. She just never expected to actually see him do it.

The Ascended Emperor of Shurima was sitting on his bed in nothing but a pair of breeches, which left most of his otherwise armored form uncovered. Lots of fine, light grey feathers, similarly pale limbs, a curved beak, big blue eyes and was that tuft of ruffled feathers a crest on his head? Sivir was no expert, but employing birds of prey was a fine tradition of Shuriman hunters and she learned to recognize and appreciate the form of a well-bred hawk or eagle.

“I must say, you are a mighty handsome pigeon,” she teased, putting down the food on the table by the window.

“Please don’t say that,” he said, getting up and moving to sit at the table. Sivir still didn’t get a hang of reading his face, but there was a tension in his voice that made her feel that she should have chosen her words better.

“Sorry, your Highness. I wanted to say a mighty handsome falcon.”

Azir snapped his beak in irritation, but didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Sivir decided to give him his space and wandered off to look around. Pieces of his armor were scattered around the bed and she noticed a bottle of cleaning solution and a rag there; he must have been busy with maintenance when she arrived. Sivir picked up the headpiece, surprised at the weight. She didn’t imagine that it was genuinely solid gold, but there was no mistaking it. Weighting up the piece in her hand she made a quick calculation how much the whole set would weight.

Of all the metals to use for armor, gold was the worst choice, hands down. For one thing, without magical reinforcement it was very malleable and easily deformed in battle; it was true enough that once you got a spell to stick to it, gold held onto the enchantment like there was no tomorrow, but still. What really made it unsuitable was the density; gold was some awfully heavy stuff. It was heavier than lead for crying out loud, more than twice as heavy as plain old steel was.

For all the warriors’ fondness of armor that screamed “made from solid steel”, Sivir knew for a fact that most of those ridiculously big pieces were hollow, or creatively padded and formed platemail. Why bother with overweight slabs, when a protective enchantment would serve the same purpose?

The realization that the fragile looking Azir ran around in weightier gear than that big brute Darius made Sivir appreciate the caster a bit more.

She almost dropped the helmet at the noise of breaking glass. She spun around and found Azir staring at the remnants of the broken glass, tension clear in every inch of his frame.

“Everything all right?” she asked, slightly alarmed by the sight. Emperors were proud bastards and one of the things he took pride in was his control, over emotions and magic both. To see him tense – no, clearly _upset_ , she noted when she noticed his hands, shaking even balled into fists – was an alarming event in itself.

“No. You were right.” His voice was flat and the shaking intensified. “I am a pigeon, a useless birdbrain who doesn’t even know how to drink a glass of water or enjoy a meal anymore.”

Sivir stared at him and, maybe for the first time, actually _looked_. His beak moved as he spoke, but he had admitted that it was mostly out of habit; ascension was complicated magic that went over Sivir’s head, but it still couldn’t make a bird’s unyielding beak to form words and his voice just… _sounded_ when he felt like speaking.

Among other things, a beak was also entirely unsuitable for mundane, everyday tasks like chewing. The realization lead to a train of thoughts that Sivir didn’t want to follow through, but it gave her a fairly solid idea why he was so reluctant to eat or drink in company.

Or feel uneasy when she teased him about being a bird. That particular detail should have made her catch onto the problem a lot faster.

“You’ve gone though quite a big change and nobody expects you to adapt to it right away,” she said, picking up the shards of broken glass from the floor. “Every now and then even emperors are allowed to take things one step at a time.” Azir seemed to get a hold of himself while she finished with the shards, but he still looked pretty shaken.

“Would it make you feel better if I left?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Please stay. I have little taste for the food, but it would be a shame to waste it.”

“Well, I missed _my_ breakfast because of this errand, so I will take great pleasure in eating yours,” she joked, but behind the light tone, she was on the lookout for any other worrying sign, but the dark mood seems to have passed for the time being.

So she grabbed a chair and chitchatted the morning away, sharing rumors as they came to her mind while Azir sipped his morning coffee through a silly, bright orange curvy straw that must have remained from the championship opening party a few days before.

Sivir made a mental note to check her sources on the rumor that Jericho Swain occasionally got stuck in his other form when he overexerted himself. Who knows, maybe if she cashes in a few favors, she could persuade the old crow to give a few tips to make Azir’s life a bit easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking about these two. Azir has a lot of new things he has to cope with after being dead for a long time and Sivir is his only connection to the now. As for Sivir, Azir is her ticket to becoming a royalty, which is enough starting reason to put up with the man, no matter how infuriating he can be at times.


	4. Jax - Masked faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody's not a morning person. He's also never seen with his face bared, which raises a few eyebrows among the champions.

One new custom our champ strongly disliked about the LCS was the obligatory meals in the canteen. It was to show that they really put their differences aside and the Institute’s kitchen was actually top notch, but there was a reason he usually ate alone in his quarters.

Numerous eyes blinked sleepily and he stifled a yawn as he made his way among the tables. One thing was for sure, it was entertaining to watch how his fellow champions acted in the morning, not to mention the quasi-forced table compositions all over the place. One of the tensest tables were shared by Shen and Zed, giving each other the silent treatment. Others worked out surprisingly well.

Annie and Darius were competing who can pile more jam on their toast and the Hand of Noxus seemed to be winning so far. His brother, Glorious Executioner he might be, but Draven wasn’t overly familiar with the idea of two seven o’clocks in a day and was snoring with his head on the table, clutching Tibbers, much to the glee of Annie. A few tables over, Jarvan IV. and Swain was sharing a civilized breakfast, chatting about anything but diplomacy, military issues and politics. They got on shockingly well so far as they stayed clear of those topics. Jarvan was feeding Beatrice pieces of his toast and let her perch on his shoulder for summoners’ shake!

Our champ arrived at his destination, the long table reserved for the champions from Iona and Demacia, all in the name of diplomacy. At the moment it was mostly surrounded by Demacians, Iona’s champs still busy with their morning training routines and meditation. He located the empty seats, regretfully far away from the coffee and was about to sit with a mumble that could have been ‘Good morning’ when Garen stopped him.

“I’m sorry friend, but these seats are reserved for others. Please look for another table.” The tone was friendly enough, but there was something in the swordsman’s face that said, _I don’t like you, I don’t trust you and I don’t want you anywhere near me_. Cue much sleepy, confused blinking on our champion’s part and trust me when I say that all those eyes blinking in asynchrony were really damn confusing. Well, if he wasn’t wanted, then he wasn’t wanted. He mumbled an apology and left to look for another table, preferably with better company and easy access to the coffee.

The table occupied by the Pentakill and co. seemed a good choice. It had most of the spectral champs consuming whatever it was that specters ate and Karthus drinking what was probably embalming fluid, but Sona was there eating normal-people-food and from afar it seemed that so did Mordekaiser. The master of metal was slowly demolishing a family-sized plate full of bacon and eggs, washing it down with coffee.

He was sold on the coffee part and adjusted his way to approach them. He was halfway when Hecarim galloped in, covered in a lilac horse-blanket and carrying three yordles on his back. After a short, quiet conversation that he couldn’t overhear, the three little ones were seated at the table, bickering amicably over the marmalade.

The whole group looked up when he approached, some regarding him with curiosity, others with suspicion.

“’Morning. Can I sit here? I wasn’t welcome at my own table.” He jerked a thumb at the Iona-Demacia table. His voice was still scratchy this early in the morning, but it was recognizable and put the company at ease.

The shadows covering Mordekaiser’s face changed, probably indicating a grin.

“Why of course. There’s plenty to go around.” He saw all those eyes focus on the coffee pot and nudged it closer to the newcomer.

Our champ settled down, grabbed himself a plate of food, a generous amount of coffee and listened to the morning banter of his odd breakfast companions. The Pentakill members were discussing music, which provided an interesting tableau: Karthus talking excitedly about a new Ionian songstress, Sona signaling enthusiastically, sharing the Deathsinger’s excitement. Mordekaiser and Yorick were in deep discussion about guitars with an occasional comment from Olaf, who looked very, very hung-over. Quite a feat, as intoxicating beverages were strictly banned during the championship. The details honestly went over our champ’s head; he never really showed much interest in music.

Thresh was humming quietly, gazing into his eerily glowing lantern he had set on the table and nodded along absently to Tristana, who loudly complained about _certain_ yordles sleeping in and causing Poppy, Lulu and her to almost miss breakfast – the most important meal of the day! Hecarim, who no longer served as a ride for the little ones was hopping from one hoof to another, clearly uncomfortable with the height of the table until he folded down with an irritated sigh, kneeling. He then surprised most of the living around the table by removing his fanged helmet, revealing a ghostly blue face much like the rest of his body.

The face shown was almost disappointingly ordinary: strong jaw, straight nose, hard features and a few deep lines indicating that he spent most of his living years with his brows furrowed in anger, but if one forgot about the equine bits the description fit most bruiser warriors.

“So,” the ghost warrior started, voice missing some of it otherworldly echo without the helmet. “As neither of us is likely to show up on the LCS this year, which team do you favor? I say the northerners stand a chance.”

Our champ smiled, took a swig of his coffee – strong and black, just as he liked it – and started speaking.

* * *

The Ionian champions slowly turned up, one after the other and made their way to their reserved table. The first two to arrive were Wukong and Master Yi, the swordsman looking half his usual size without his customary helmet and the three-sizes-too-big boots. They were followed by a grumpy and regrettably sober Yasuo.

“Finally!” exclaimed Lux, happy for the new company. “We were starting to think you won’t even show. You Ionians take morning meditation real seriously.”

The two wuju warriors exchanged glances. “That is unusual news. Jax should already be here. He is a soul who is not truly awake until he consumes his morning coffee,” said Yi, looking around in search of the warrior. It wasn’t a long search; even with his hair down, Jax had a distinctive look to him. “Ah, there he is. Good, it would appear he already got his morning drink.”

“Where?” asked Lux and Garen in unison.

“He is sitting with the Pentakill, talking to… is that Hecarim I spy there?” asked Wukong, craning his neck because he was intrigued by the spectral centaur.

Lux found the man who was supposed to be Jax and balked. “Is that really him?! I mean...” she gestured at her face. She didn’t know how to say ‘purple with too many eyes’ without sounding rude.

“Ah, yes. I am uncertain what manner of creature he is, but I believe Heimerdinger based the idea of my goggles on his kind. Multiple eyes for more complex vision,” Yi said, pouring himself a cup of green tea, totally unfazed by his fellow Ionian’s appearance. “I would advise you not to ask about it. It is a most personal topic.”

Garen sat silently by his sister, looking guilty. It was him who drove away the champion. Jax seemed happy enough in his current company, but it still bugged the proud warrior of Demacia.

He didn’t take his eyes of the Pentakill’s table until Lux elbowed him in the side.

“You are staring and your eggs will go cold,” she hissed. “You can apologize after breakfast.” Garen turned back his attention to his own table and his mostly full plate. It would be a shame to let perfectly good ham and eggs go cold, he agreed. To his right, Wukong was telling a joke about a voidling and a crowbar that made Lux blush to a fierce red.

This was good. Familiar. He will have opportunity to apologize later, Garen decided and banished every Jax-related thought for the rest of the meal.

Three hours later, when the Grandmaster at Arms wiped the floor of the training room with him, he thought: in hindsight, I should have just suck it up and apologize there and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jax probably doesn't look like this at all, but we had too much fun with the idea of multi-eyed monster Jax. Also, I'm blaming that Heca on Dia. You know who you are.


	5. Jarvan - Asking for directions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarvan sets out to get his lance back from Swain, but has to ask for directions on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this time, but I want to keep up with the updates.

Jarvan Lightshield IV. definitely did _not_ sneak down the corridor. And he most definitely did _not_ do it to avoid Xin Zhao’s notice. The loyal seneschal could be overprotective of his prince at times. Well, most of the time. He would not approve of Jarvan lending one of his lances to the tyrant of Noxus or venturing out alone to retrieve it.

He passed the Demacian quarters and arrived into a small hall. While on the same floor, the Noxian and Demacian rooms were not in the same corridor which presented a slight problem: all the doors looked the same on the whole floor and he had no idea which room belonged to who.

Jarvan decided to wing it and turned to corner, only to facecheck a mostly naked Darius.

From the looks of it, the man had just recently had a shower and was walking from one room to another in nothing but a towel. Jarvan was not someone easily intimidated by nudity, but that was a lot of bare skin to suddenly get an eyeful of. And scars and tattoos… it was so plain to see that the prince was staring that he didn’t even try to hide it. Tattoos were something that had fascinated him a great deal, but were greatly frowned upon among Demacians, so he never really got to see them up clo… ooh, was that a stylized lion he spied there? For a moment, Jarvan entertained the thought of sporting something like that, only with a dragon.

“I told you to put on a shirt at least. Look, you broke him,” came a smooth voice from the still open door that dragged him back to the present. Vladimir was leaning on the doorframe, remarkably chipper for this early in the morning. He looked almost normal without the flashy clothes and the metal claws and Jarvan found the lack of blood a reassuring sign.

“’Morning. Looking for Jericho?” Darius asked, not in the least fazed by the staring.

It took a moment to connect ‘Jericho’ with ‘Swain’, but Jarvan nodded. “Yes. He told me to meet him before breakfast.”

The warrior pointed a finger down the corridor. “Room 38, just at the end. Can’t be missed.”

“Thank you.” He had half a mind to just go and get it over with, but his curiosity won over his practicality. “May I ask…?”

Darius regarded him suspiciously for a moment, but deemed the question harmless enough.

“I overslept and didn’t get to the shower before Draven hogged the bathroom for his morning routine.” He said that with frown that told more about what he thought of his brother’s vanity than a ten thousand word essay could. “Vladimir allowed me to use his shower instead.”

That was such a mundane explanation that Jarvan almost laughed out aloud. He then gave the hemomancer a dubious glance. It was well know that Vladimir was almost as vain as Draven.

“No need to look at me like that,” said the caster defensively. “Not everyone needs four hours in front of a mirror to look fabulous.” There was a glint in his eye before he next opened his mouth to speak, but Darius interrupted him, raising a warning finger.

“Any blood themed joke and I’m breaking your jaw. It’s far too early for your puns.”

The not-quite-vampire made an offended noise. “Well then, be on your way. I have no more time for you this morning,” he declared with a wave of his hand and retreated into his room.

“He spends too much of his free time coming up with those horrible puns,” murmured Darius after the door closed behind Vladimir.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” offered Jarvan. Darius just snorted at that.

“Sports like basketball are good hobby. Coming up with blood-puns is like collecting anti-jokes about firewood: it just makes you weird.”

“Why would anyone want to collect anti-jokes about firewood?”

“That is a topic where ignorance is bliss.” Darius fell silent and Jarvan realized that this was the most he had talked to the man so far. “There was a storm this night, so I expect Jericho to be a bit...,” he fished for words before settled on one.“ grumpy. Wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”

Jarvan couldn’t see the connection between the storm and the tyrant’s mood, but he felt he could take the advice to hearth just this once. “Thank you. I’ll be going then.”

Darius made a grunt that could have been approval before disappearing behind a door, hopefully to finally get dressed and Jarvan started walking down the corridor.

Room 38, just at the end of the corridor. It can’t be that hard to find, now can it?

Can it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come next time. Jarvan will finally get his lance back and they will get an earful of Shuriman inside politics. ;)  
> Btw, I want to include champions that get less limelight, so feel free to throw ideas at me: who do you want to see? I have plans, but nothing set in stone other than more with the so-far regular cast of Azir-Sivir-Jarvan.


	6. Jarvan and Swain - A not so typical morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarvan IV. finally gets his lance back, learns a few new things about Swain, Beatrice and Azir in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time to write, partially because my exams started and my priorities shifted towards studying a lot - I need to scrape together at least 70% in everything to get a scholarship next semester, so I've been up to my eyeballs in books and notes.
> 
> I will try to keep updating and I have an ever growing list of champions I want to include, but I'm not sure how often I will succeed.

Finding Jericho Swain’s room was easy, just as Darius said and Jarvan faced no other surprise encounters with half-naked warriors and almost-vampires with a bad sense of humor.

He knocked politely and almost immediately heard the sound of the lock opening and the door creaking ajar, which he took as an invitation.

The door opened to a simple living room, looking just like Jarvan’s on the other side of the floor, so he gathered that the rooms are mirrored in the two corridors.

If that theory was correct, then the doors to the left lead to the bedroom and a small study and those on the right to a bathroom and an even smaller kitchen – just big enough to make some tea or throw together a sandwich. The living room was deserted, but he caught sight of dark wings flying to the study.

“Swain? Er… Good morning?” he called out, not sure how to proceed. He was brought up not to barge into other people’s personal space - mostly due to his mother’s influence - but he felt rather lost, standing all alone there. “Anybody here?”

There was a dull thud and the bedroom door opened to reveal the master tactician.

“You?! How the hell did you get in? I’d swear I locked the door.” The Noxian looked like someone who didn’t sleep much, dark rings under his eyes, his hair disheveled and freed from its usual binding and his scarred mouth twisted into a frown. He was clearly displeased to find an unexpected visitor in his room.

“Someone unlocked the door and let me in. “Jarvan had no reason to lie. It seemed to be the right choice, because Swain lost some of his hostile air and sighed.

“It must have been Beatrice. She’ll drive me crazy one day. Well, sit, if you are already here. I’ll be with you momentarily. As soon as I find where that hellspawn hid my other boot…,” the last part was grumbled under his breath, but it was still just loud enough that Jarvan caught it. And indeed as the tactician hobbled away he was missing his right footwear.

The prince swept some sand off the couch, made himself comfortable and looked around the room to occupy himself.

Most of the place was tidy, nothing much to see, but the coffee table was covered in heavy tomes, maps and the prince spotted two empty coffee cups among the papers – one of them had a straw in it.

Despite the rumours, Jarvan wasn’t actually an idiot. He checked, just to be sure, but he wasn’t surprised to see that they were history books and maps of battles fought long ago. If Lux were in his place, she would be seriously disappointed that they weren’t ancient tomes on Forbidden Magycks or some equally romantic nonsense.

There was a ‘caw’ coming from the direction of a tall bookcase and the prince looked up to see Beatrice watching him with far too many unsettlingly intelligent eyes.

 

She had Swain’s boot in her claws and seemed to have a high time removing the bootlace and tying it again in various knots.

“Now, is that the way to behave?” Jarvan asked in his best disapproving voice. “You gave him a lot of trouble you know.”

“Caw!”

“Do be a lady and give that back to him. Go!”

“Caw.” She sounded disappointed, but did as asked.

A few minutes later Swain returned, finally in possession of both of his boots, Beatrice sulking on the perch on his shoulder. He didn’t have the scarf over his face as he usual did, so Jarvan could take a closer look at the ghastly scar. It looked like a very deep cut, from the chin across the mouth and ended just below the nose.

The man did have, however, Jarvan’s lance. The Demacian put the book down he was immersed in and stood to take it.

“Thank you. Does she do this often?” he asked, feeling a bit bold. One of Swain’s eyebrows twitched in annoyance and he leaned over to pick up the book Jarvan was reading.

“Thankfully, no. I’m seldom forced to lock her up in such a small space. She grows bored easily.”

I was little wonder then why the man was so irritable this morning. It was no secret that the Noxian valued his crow a lot, so it stood to reason that he wouldn’t let her out in the raging storm or let her roam the halls of the Institute alone. As the Institute of War didn’t have an aviary, much less one as impressive as the one in the Noxian palace – Quinn had often talked about wanting to visit it one day and held it in high esteem as the One Thing Noxians Did Right – Beatrice was limited to Swain’s quarters for the night. From the tactician’s tired look, she entertained herself by annoying her master all night.

Jarvan was a cat-person, much like his mother, so he felt he could relate.

“The prince of Demacia reading Noxian history,” Swain commented and his scratchy voice brought Jarvan back to the here and now. “How did you find it?” he asked, walking over to a bookcase and putting the tome away.

“Refreshingly honest,” Jarvan admitted and saw a flicker of something – maybe surprise? Doubt? It was gone too quickly to tell – pass over the Noxian’s face, so he decided to elaborate.

“Our historians go to great lengths to justify Demacia’s every move and decision; even the worst mistakes. For all of Noxus’ conquests and political backstabbing, you never tried too hard to present yourself as something you were not or make excuses. The Ionian invasion was a massacre that went too far; good riddance that Darkwill got assassinated before he could declare war on Freljord and march the army to their frozen death and nobody is quite sure what happened in Kalamandra, even those who were there.” He made a dismissive gesture. “If this was a Demacian book, third of it would be empty praise, another third justification for Demacia’s decisions and maybe a few actual facts on the side.”

“You are extremely critical with your historians,” Swain remarked as he started to pack away the rest of the books. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“I stand by Demacia’s values,” Jarvan said firmly, setting his lance aside to help folding a map. When Swain stayed silent he went on, both helping and speaking. “But I have spent enough time in foreign lands that I’m no longer blind to its faults. We hide our failings behind big ideas and twisted words until even we forget how to decipher them. No wonder Azir came to you for information instead of us.”

The revelation that Jarvan figured out who visited him last night seemed to annoy the Noxian a great deal.

“The emperor needs to learn how to be more discrete about his presence. Was it the sand that gave him away?” Swain asked, sweeping some of it off the table.

“Partially. And I don’t know many others who need a crash course in history and drink their coffee through a straw.”

“Impressive, a Demacian royal who uses his brain as well as his muscles.” Jarvan was about to complain, but Swain went on. “If you had been present, maybe the Shuriman delegation’s audience with your King wouldn’t have ended in a disaster.”

The prince resisted the urge to avert his eyes in embarrassment at the mention of the incident. He will _not_ show weakness when Swain was watching his reactions like a hawk.

“You have heard of it.”

“It was hard not to. If portion of what my sources say is true, then it must have been a truly spectacular train wreck of a meeting.” He spoke nonchalantly, but his eyes never left Jarvan, searching for reaction. “I trust the Queen had made reparations?”

“Mother wrote them an official apology and invited them to the Champion’s Ball next month to apologize in person,” the prince answered defensively.

Most would agree that Jarvan III. was a military genius. His diplomatic skills however were often hindered by his traditionalistic upbringing, his temper and his sheer stubbornness. When the King of Demacia stumbled upon the rocky road of international diplomacy, his Queen pawed the way with grace, elegance, charm and, when the occasion called for it, blunt honesty.

In simple terms, the apology letter pretty much read _: My husband can be a pig-headed idiot at times. Please ignore whatever he said. I would be happy to discuss a trade agreement if you’re still willing to talk to us. We are throwing a party next month to celebrate the champions of the League and I know for certain that my husband will not come. Please attend if you can. Dancing is optional, dressing up is not. Bring as many companions as you want - the more the merrier. P.S.: If you decide to attend, please bring Skarner. He’s the only person who can put up with Taric for a whole evening_.

The Queen of Demacia was, all things considered, a very remarkable lady, at least in her son’s view. Curiously enough, Swain seemed to share Jarvan IV.’s opinion on the matter; the Noxian couldn’t stand Jarvan III., but he held the Queen of Demacia in high esteem.

“The Queenhas always been a sensible woman,” he remarked. “I will direct Azir to you when he asks about modern ballroom etiquette and protocol. That way, you can’t accuse Noxus of exploiting his lack of knowledge and manipulating him in our favor.”

“You’d better not try!” Jarvan warned, but lost most of the effect due to his loudly growling stomach; an acute reminder that he still didn’t get around to eat his breakfast.

To add insult to injury, Swain laughed at the prince’s predicament, but Jarvan was too distracted to really take offense. The laugh had properly showed off the caster’s teeth, revealing why he wore the scarf most of the time: in line with the scar running across the lower half of his face he had teeth unmatched to the rest, hideous fangs that would fit Renekton’s maw better than a human mouth. They stood awkwardly, asymmetrically in the top and bottom which only reinforced the bizarre look.

It looked like healing magic gone wrong. Whatever injured the tactician, it had knocked some of his teeth out and the injury was fixed crudely, with this horrific patchwork.

“It seems it’s time for a morning bite. I planned to get some breakfast after you are gone, but we might as well go together. We are sharing a table anyway.”

Jarvan thought about the offer. It would not be fortunate if one of his peers saw them going to the mess together – especially if that person was Garen or Xin Zhao. On the other hand, it _was_ true that they were forced to share a table anyway as part of the summoners’ ongoing effort to get the champions to get on with each other. Jarvan saw no real drawback in the deal, if they can sneak past the Demacians.

As it turned out, Swain had a solution for that and after leaving his room, he lead them down a narrow staircase that ended on the far end of the neutral mages’ quarters on the ground floor. It was a usually calm, mostly deserted area according to the Noxian; out of the way where nobody went unless they actually lived there or went for the rare visit to one of the eccentric mages.

It was definitely an oddity to see Renekton and Sivir eavesdropping at one of the doors in the most stereotypical way possible, with their ears at the door.

“What is going on here?” Swain asked when they were about to pass the Shurimans. They were an unlikely duo, just like Jarvan and Swain themselves. They looked at the stone faced Noxian with the guilty expression of kids who got caught stealing from the cookie jar.

Before those two could explain why they were eavesdropping at the door, muffled shouting could be heard – whoever was arguing inside finally got loud enough that he could be heard outside.

This being the mages quarters, argument between the residents was never a good thing – disagreements between casters had a tendency to end with a very deep crater where a building used to stand – so the newcomers took upon themselves to elbow some room by the door, just in case things got bad enough that they need to separate the arguing parties before things exploded.

Jarvan pressed his ear to door alongside Swain and after some careful listening recognized the shouting voice as Azir. If he concentrated, he could even make out his words.

_“A necessary experiment!? You blew up the capital!”_

“…” The prince couldn’t hear what the other person said, but there was a pause while he spoke.

“ _The explosion evaporated everyone and everything in a twenty kilometre radius!”_ The emperor sounded upset and Jarvan couldn’t really blame him for it.

“…”

_“I don’t care if it was unplanned! It decimated the capital and caused the decline of the Empire!”_

“…”

_“Saying sorry doesn’t make things right! You don’t even mean it!”_

There was another pause, longer this time. It gave Jarvan a bad feeling, so when Beatrice gave a warning caw, he pushed himself away from the door without thinking and so did the others. Lucky timing, because the next moment the door came flying off its hinges and Azir stormed out and stomped down the corridor. In his blind rage, he didn’t notice the eavesdroppers gathered by the door.

Sivir was the first to peek into the room to check for further damage, they were all looking inside to check if everything was all right soon enough. The room was almost completely empty but for a tall bookcase with old tomes and a chair, possibly for guests, that clearly saw little use. No bed, no other furniture, no decoration.

In the middle was Xerath, with the pieces of his sarcophagus closed around his core; Jarvan wasn’t sure if it was a defensive state, or the Magus Ascendant was simply sulking.

“Everything all right, boss?” Renekton asked, pushing his maw inside over the heads of everybody else.

“I’m not your boss,” snapped Xerath. There was a pause, then “Yes. Leave me!”

Sivir, Swain and Jarvan exchanged silent glances. Renekton just stared ahead with murderous eyes. “We’ll be on our way then.”

“Just a moment, Sivir.”

The Battle Mistress stiffened, ready to face the consequences.

“Tell Azir that I will join the team as a mid laner, if he can act reasonably and leave the past where it belongs.”

There was a vaguely threatening tone to mage’s voice. Sivir quickly nodded her agreement and all of the humans made a beeline for the safety of the main hall.

“What was that all about?” Jarvan asked curiosity getting the better of him.

“Something to do with how Azir died and Xerath ascended,” Sivir said. “I’m not sure about the details, but I need to find Azir before he does something reckless.” She looked the two men up and down, calculating, “Not a word of this to anyone, understood?”

“Naturally. We don’t want to be involved in Shurima’s inside conflicts,” Swain said smoothly and Jarvan nodded along.

“Good. Go back on your word and I’m murdering you both in your sleep,” the mercenary threatened before hurrying up the stairs to find her wayward Emperor.

People started to filter into the hall, heading to the mess to get breakfast and the two men quickly followed them before someone decided to ask what they were doing there together.

Still, even as they took seat at their table, Jarvan couldn’t help to think about the Shurimans. The desert nation had already much on their plate trying to rebuild economy and their capital, the last thing they needed was a conflict between two of their ascended.

Beatrice hopped over to his shoulder and lightly tugged on his ear. That was a different worry for a different way and if Sivir inherited her stubbornness from Azir’s line of her ancestors, then the emperor’s going to make things work, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loved it? Hated it? Please comment.
> 
> Anda few things about off-hand remarks here, because AU wordbuilding!
> 
> Swain got an axe to the face. Quite literally. The blow broke out some of his teeth and shattered his jaw. Beatrice patched him up and saved his life, but a demon crow isn't exactly an expert on teeth, so the result was a bit hit and miss.
> 
> The disastrous meeting between Jarvan III. and Azir was mostly thanks to the latter's reluctance to reinforce Demacia's laws in his country. After all, roughly 70% of the population is bandits and it would be impossible to imprison or execute all of them as per Demacian law dictates. And it would have made it impossible for Sivir to inherit anything if he ever grew tired of being Emperor, thus breaking the royal bloodline. Not going to happen under Azir's watch.
> 
> Xerath's lore here is a mixture of old and new - he was friends with Azir and eventually stole his ascension with horrible consequences, but his motivations were that of the old Xerath: expand his knowledge and power and find a way survive the toll all that arcane energy was taking on him. He honestly didn't expect the ritual to go out with a boom.


	7. Twisted Fate - Breaking the meta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short one based on the first UOL vs TSM match in the San Jose tournament. Also a way champion selection might work from their point of view.

The champions waited in the lobby, eyes fastened on the huge screen while the teams chose picks and bans. The most likely picks gathered in the front, exited to get their turn in the championship.

The bans rolled in: Irelia, Jayce, Corki, Zed, Nunu and Warwick. Zed and Corki was quiet used to being a pick or ban choice and took it in stride, Irelia expected it because of the summoner’s efficiency with her, but Nunu and Warwick had little chance to shine in a long time, so their disappointment hung heavy in the air.

Then came the picks, Pantheon locked in right away as first. The warrior’s face was invisible in the shadow of his helmet, but he seemed eager enough, hurrying to the blue team’s podium with confident steps. That was one happy Rakkor right there.

The other team countered with Gnar and Lucian. The little fuzzball practically bounced his way to the red team’s podium, chattering a mile a minute in a language nobody understood. The whole high-end championship gig was still new to him and the freshness of it has yet to pass. Lucian followed with the calm demeanor of a veteran who did this a dozen times already.

Rumble followed on blue team, as it could be expected. He had bragged about holding his own against Gnar, mini or mega, and the summoners seemed to agree. Sivir came as third, which slightly surprised the mercenary, but she didn’t complain. She pushed her way to the front and walked to her place with the confidence of someone who came to win.

Thresh crackled manically when he was chosen to support Lucian, but nobody was really surprised by that pick. There was a very tense moment when he offered his hand to his laning partner – a usual ritual between the two of them, an agreement to put aside their grievances for the match –, but Lucian caught it in a crushing grip and shook it with enough vigor that it seemed he wanted to tear off the specter’s arm. Thresh didn’t seem to mind, but he flexed his fingers to make sure everything was still in working order when nobody was looking.

There was some holdup while the other pick showed up, grumbling under his breath about the chances that he will get countered as he pushed his way to the front.

“I thought you liked gambles,” commented Lucian when Twisted Fate finally made his way up the podium.

“Sure thing I do. But I hate when the odds are stacked against me,” answered the Card Master, pulling his hat deep into his eyes.

Last picks for the blues were Xerath and the obligatory Janna, both of them floating up the podium to joint their team – though it was quite comic how the Magus Ascendant shied away from Sivir’s murderous glare. The midlaner, while officially a member of the Shuriman National Team, had put his foot down, strictly figuratively of course, against cooperating with Azir on the battlefield, which had earned him the ire of the rest of the Shurimans.

Fate was so immersed in trying to figure out his angles against Xerath – a rough matchup because of the Mage’s insane range – that he almost missed the collective grasp of surprise when LeBlanc got locked in last.

LeBlanc was mid, no doubt about it and she will eat Xerath for breakfast. That made Twisted Fate the jungler.

Fate just stared, trying to process the news. Him. Jungler. He could count on one hand how many times he’d been in the reworked jungle – it was a nasty and dangerous place even if he got lucky enough that Pantheon didn’t set up camp in his jungle and wreck him every time he tried to farm.

On the other hand, this was exactly the kind of curved ball that can tip the odds in their favor.

A slow, dark smile found its way to his face. A team crazy enough to pick him as a jungler must have an ace or two up their sleeve, and he knew the best that fortune favors the brave.

He smirked across the room, taking in the bewildered faces of the enemy team.

Time to defy the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone follows the pro tournaments, the UOL are personal favourites of mine, partially because of their toplaner is from the same country as I am and mostly because of their unusual picks - the best teams are better mechanically, in their shotcalling and gameplay, but I find it very repetitive that they are always picking the same champions. 
> 
> It's personal preference, but I had more fun watching Unicorns of Love with their TF jungle or Course Academy in the NA expansion tournament with their mid Hecarim than Samsung White's games during Worlds.
> 
> Fun question if anyone follows the pros: who's your favorite team and why?


	8. Sona and Jinx - Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinx wants Sona to teach her a 'secret language' and Mordekaiser pays a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I had some health issues that prevented me from writing.
> 
> Slightly unrelated, but I don't have a Beta yet, so if anyone catches a grammar mistake or anything of sorts, I would be extremely grateful if you told me.

_“Sona speaking through telepathy”_

:: Character speaking through sign language ::

* * *

 

It was a really pleasant morning. The breakfast was tasty and the unusual company they had made it even better. The yordles’ happy chitchatting gave a nice background noise to their conversation and Jax proved to be good company. He wasn’t really interested in music which was a bit of a bummer, but he told the best jokes she heard in a while and it was entertaining to watch the impromptu arm-wrestling competition. Jax’s expression when he first lost to Thresh, then to Karthus will be a very fond memory that would brighten her mood in dark moments. Undead of the Shadow Isles variety were, as a rule of thumb, ridiculously strong – they substituted muscles with sheer determination and you had to be an exceedingly stubborn person to stop being ‘alive’ and don’t transition right away into being really ‘dead’.

All in all, the day started well for Sona and she had a little treasure in her pocket that will make it even better. It didn’t look like much, only a plain, ordinary recording crystal, but it was a precious gift; Hecarim’s demo album. The horseman wasn’t widely known for his musical talents, but music had somehow become the gimmick of the Shadow Isles. The Shadow of War was the backup guitarist of the Pentakill and the only reason he didn’t make it as a permanent member was Mordekaiser’s intolerance of feel-good pop and hextech tunes– Hecarim’s preferred genre of music.

Sona on the other hand had enjoyed the warrior’s music a great deal – she was also deeply touched by his trust as he didn’t readily share his work with anyone - and prepared for an hour of rainbows, unicorns, fluffy feelings, upbeat hextech tunes and guitar solos. She was just outside of her room, fishing for her keycard in a bottomless pocket of her dress when she felt eyes on the back of her head. Someone was watching her.

She discretely looked around the corridor and spotted a pair of bright blue braids hiding behind a potted plant.

Sona faced a little dilemma; she didn’t have her Etwahl on her person because it was big and clumsy and only got in the way during breakfast, but with it she lost her easiest form of communication. Hand signs were well and good with friends, but most of the champions were accustomed to her musical ‘telepathy’ and never bothered to learn them. How should she approach the ‘sneaky’ –for a given value of sneakiness which was, admittedly, not much - spy, then?

Fate ( _not_ the one with the cards and the Hat) decided to solve her dilemma when Jinx unceremoniously fell out of her hiding place, knocking the potted plant over in the process.

Sona rushed to her and helped her stand up, checking her over for injuries in the process.

“Blast it, Fishbones! You blew our cover!” exclaimed Jinx when she was finally upright, scolding her pet gun. Then she gave a sidelong glance to Sona. “But we wanted to talk to the Harp Lady anyway.”

Sona mentally winced at the title of “Harp Lady”. Her precious instrument was _not_ a harp, thank you very much. Still, she made a show of pointing at Jinx, the gun and then herself, a questioning look on her face.

“Yep, to you. Do you see any other Harp Lady around here? Speaking of which,” she leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “Where is your harp? You can’t be a proper Harp Lady without a harp.”

Sona pointed at her room.

“In we go then. I want to talk to you about something very important.” Jinx quickly looked around with a conspiratory glint in her eye and whispered: “It’s top secret.”

Sona very much doubted that, but decided to humour the girl. Only after setting the plotted plant upright of course. You couldn’t leave the victims of Jinx’s enthusiasm laying around, even when they were of the photosynthesizing variety. Besides, Zyra had a room in the same corridor and she would have gone bananas if Sona left it like that.

So she allowed Jinx into her room and as it could be expected, the energetic young woman was all over the place in seconds. She looked under the bed, in the cupboards, behind the bookshelf searched most of the drawers – as it usually happens due to the universe’s love of comedy, the first she pulled out was the one full of underwear, of course – and even peered into the mouse hole , making certain that they were not spied on. She didn’t find anything of significance, but she did eat the cheese Sona had put out for the mice – not poisoned, thankfully. Twitch (and consequently Zac) had made quite a stand against that sort of thing, mousetraps, poisoned food and the likes.

Meanwhile Sona collected her Etwahl and played a few simple tunes, feeling her connection to the instrument strengthen to a warm glow in her chest.

_“Why do you want to speak to me?”_

“I want you to teach me those cool secret signals!” Beamed Jinx, enthusiasm radiating from every fiber of her being. “You know, the hand signs.” She went on, gesturing wildly. “It would be totally cool! I could talk to Fishbones in secret and nobody would understand. We would be totally like spies!” A thought had occurred to her and her face fell a bit. “He can learn too, can he? There’s not much point to a secret language if your partner can’t understand it.” She made begging puppy eyes at the Maiden and hugged her gun close.

Sona thought about the idea for a minute. She had a fleeting impulse to tell Jinx that at least a third of the champions knew some sign language, so the secret language wouldn’t be so secret at all, but banished the thought. Teaching Jinx would keep the chaotic girl occupied for a time and hopefully keep her out of harm’s way. Honestly, what was the worst she could do? Signal rude things at people in the hopes that they wouldn’t understand. Most of those who would understand them will either shrug it off or have a laugh out of it and those who wouldn’t, well they would get offended anyway because Jinx was just… Jinx. There was no real downside to the deal.

She was about to tell her yes when someone knocked on her door. Well, it sounded more like someone was trying to break her door down with a mace, but she knew the sound well enough to tell that there was no destructive intent behind it.

A visitor she would have loved to have, if it weren’t for the horrible timing.

“Maven of Strings? Are you here?” thundered Mordekaiser’s voice from the other side of the door. The man just couldn’t do subtle, not that he ever tried.

On a hunch Sona caught Jinx and covered the girl’s mouth before she could call out that ‘she’s not here’. She looked strictly at the trigger-happy girl until she made certain Jinx would stay quiet, then quickly opened an armoire and hastily pushed her inside.

“ _I will teach both of you, but only if you do exactly what I say. Stay in here and stay very quiet, understood?_ ”

Jinx gave her a thumbs up and a wink. “We are not even here,” she whispered.

Sona had her doubts, but beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. With Jinx hopefully out of the way, she floated to the door and let the Master of Metal in.

“Is someone else here? I believe I heard your etwahl,” Mordekaiser asked, maneuvering his massive form through the doorway.

:: I was talking to the mice. The white one is getting quite friendly. :: She smiled as he put his mace down by the door.

“Why are you still feeding those pests? They are unhygienic.”

:: They are cute. And they don’t get up to any trouble with Twitch in the vicinity; he drilled every rat and mouse in the institute into behaving. ::

“That’s hardly a reassurance. He’s the single most unhygienic person I ever had the misfortune knowing,” he huffed and very carefully sat on her bed, the only piece of furniture that stood a chance of holding up all that metal. It creaked horribly, but didn’t break.

Sona smiled at him with a very special, warm smile that said, louder than any words could: I like you a lot, so I’ll just take your word on that.

:: Did you come to ask me about my mice? ::

“Heh, no. You know the big, fancy ball the Lightshields are throwing every year?” Sona nodded. She had hopes of going, either as a guest, but more likely a musician, but so far she didn’t receive an invitation.

“Well, they dedicate it to us, Champion of the League this year. Just announced. Everyone’s invited. Preferably in pairs, for all the dancing business. You know I can’t stand ballroom music and you don’t dance, so I thought that we could go together. Only if you want to. I’m a great date if there’s no dancing involved. I even made a list why, if you want to hear it.”

Sona silently laughed, her smile lighting up the whole room. The proposition wasn’t exactly a surprise as Hecarim spoiled it earlier in the morning when he muttered about kicking Mordekaiser in the head if he didn’t make up his courage to ask Sona out, but it didn’t made it any less welcome.

:: No need. I’d love to go with you to the ball. :: Good thing he made up his mind about approaching her, because it saved her the trouble of asking him out. It’s always a bit embarrassing when the lady has to do the asking. Despite his dreadful reputation, Sona had grew to like the leader of the Shadow Isles during their time as members of Pentakill. He denied it fiercely, but Mordekaiser was a gentleman under all the pointy bits of metal and booming, blood-chilling voice.

The best proof for this was the small, delicate metal rose the Master of Metal produced from a hidden compartment of his armor.

“I believe it is customary to give flowers when asking out a beautiful lady.” Sona blushed to a fierce red as she took he flower, marveling at the intricate details of the petals and the tiny phial of enchanted rose oil hidden in the stalk, giving the flower the everlasting scent of fresh roses. Live flowers didn’t last long in Mordekaiser’s presence as his aura withered them long before he could deliver them, but by gods he knew how to make up for it. One could argue that the enchanted rose was even better than the real deal, if only for the care he had put into creating it.

:: It’s lovely. I will treasure it forever.:: She said it with a warm smile and on an impulse of gratitude, moved in for a hug. It was an awkward deal because of the cumbersome, pointy armor and Mordekaiser’s evident bafflement about being hugged, but he clumsily hugged her back, barely touching her as if she would break if he wasn’t careful.

Sona couldn’t see his face, hidden by the enchanted darkness of his helmet, but she heard him gasp in surprise and felt his warm breath – if she wanted, she could almost pretend that he was a living man in the traditional sense of the word. He felt deceptively alive for one of the oldest undead, but the bitter smell of smoke and the shimmering presence of dark magic under the heavy plates broke the illusion.

The magic of the moment passed when he cleared his throat.

“I am very glad that you like it, but I should be going.”

Sona reluctantly let go of him, clutching the rose in her hand even as she saw him out. When she returned from the door, she had found Jinx already sitting on the same spot Mordekaiser occupied not so long ago, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Sona and Mordekaiser sitting in a tree~,” she singed, grinning like a maniac.

“ _Oh, stop it!_ ” Sona scolded, an embarrassed blush spreading on her cheek.

“He loves you! You hugged him and he loves you!” Jinx insisted, getting louder by the minute.

“ _He was just polite, that’s all. And I hug_ everybody _._ ” It was more or less true. She had a reputation of being an impulsive hugger. This led her to discover that hugging Kog’Maw caused stains that not even magic could get out, Ryze blushed to a vivid lilac, Rengar couldn’t help purring when you pet his ear or that Karthus felt and smelt very much like the warm, dry parchment of his ancient tomes.

“Nah. When he doesn’t threaten to bash your head in, he’s being polite. When he’s giving flowers he’s either in love or gone completely bonkers.”

“ _He can be quite the gentleman when he chooses to.”_ Not that he does it often, but it wasn’t technically a lie. _“But please don’t tell anyone. He’s got a reputation to uphold._ ”

“Pft, do you think I’m crazy? Who would believe me if I said that Spikes was actually a big, soppy romantic?”

It would be bit of a stretch – Is ‘sado-masochist with a romantic streak’ even a thing? Sona wondered – but it wouldn’t be that outrageously unbelievable. Some people would definitely take note and not the kind of people Sona wanted to know much of her friendship with the Master of Metal.

“Besides,” Jinx went on, oblivious to her thoughts. “He would murder me in my sleep if he caught me yapping. And not in a fun, creative way either. I’m too young and pretty to die.”

Sona just shook her head at that. Well, better to distract Jinx before she changes her mind.

“ _Would you like to start the first lesson now?_ ” That made the girl’s face light up with excitement.

“Yes! Right away! What do we start with? Can we start with ‘let me blast you to the moon’ please? Or wait, no, with ‘come closer I will blow off your face’?”

Sona sighed.

“ _Let’s start with the basics._ ” Jinx face fell and oh no, not the puppy eyes again. “ _If you are good, I will show you those at the end of today’s lesson._ ”

“Yeah! That’s more like it, Harp Lady.”

Sona suppressed the urge to grimace and forced a patient smile on her face. This will be harder than she thought.

In the end, she didn’t show her how to signal ‘let me blast you to the moon’. ‘Come closer I will blow off your face’ neither. She did, however, thought her how to signal ‘I’ve got a big ass rocket and not afraid to use it’, much to the girls glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a headcanon (not as if I had anything actually canon here) about the Shadow Isles undead. They are the more ‘natural’ undead, not brought back by outside sources of magic, but initially they turned to undead because they stubbornly held onto life. Sometimes unconsciously (like in Yorick’s case, who’s still not sure why he couldn’t die properly) sometimes easier to pinpoint (Thresh did not want to die at the hands of his prisoners and refused to stay dead; Karthus, when he finally got to experience unlife wanted to enjoy it dammit) and in the case of the older ones, it’s completely forgotten. After a while, the body and soul gets accustomed to its new state of being and doesn’t require an effort to stay undead anymore, but they still remain exceptionally strong willed people.
> 
> I know extremely little about sign languages, but Jinx signaling stupid nicknames and cheesy taunts at people will make a few cameos in the future. Ideas for what exactly she should signal are most welcome.
> 
> I have ideas for the next few chapters, but I can always use more. Throw ideas at me if you feel like it: who do you want to see.


	9. Darius and Aatrox - Reading corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darius just wants a quiet place to read without ruining his reputation. Apparently, so does Astrox. What if they chose the same spot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Delayed update here, because I misplaced the doc. Apologies about that.) Someone asked for something with Aatrox and Dia has a headcanon about him being a "poem person" in the 'paint his art with blood' sense. I added some of my own headcanons and this happened.

Darius put a considerable effort into building a reputation as a muscle-brained brute. Most of the time it was worth the effort: his enemies underestimated him, both as a warrior and a general.

On the downside, it meant that he had to do his professional reading in out-of-the-way places. His room didn't count on the grounds that he shared it with Draven and every man, woman or other Draven happened to woo at the time. As the younger brother had an unfortunate tendency to sprawl all over the bed and hog every available cm2, the actual date usually ended up in Darius's bed for the night, who in turn had built a strong, lasting friendship with the couch.

His usual reading sport was at the back of Zyra's garden, next to the pond of poisonous water lilies and under the equally poisonous apple trees. The garden was an infamous collecting place of deadly flora, but as long as you remembered to stay out of the water and didn't eat anything, it was perfectly safe. Thankfully this was not common knowledge, thus the garden had evaded the rebuilding going on all over the Institute.

Darius was heading there with a thick tome held securely in his hands. If someone caught him with it, he could always say he was making a delivery, but now that he finally got his hands on it, he was impatient to read it.

But Fate (not the one with the cards and the hat) has a funny way of crossing plans, thus Darius found his spot already occupied by someone else.

Without the size adjusting magic of the Rift, Aatrox looked menacingly large, even hunched over his book. His horns and wings reached the lowest branches of the apple tree and the only way he could sit on the low bench was with his long legs stretched out, knee-deep in the water. His sword, almost as tall as Darius, was leant against the trunk, emanating a shimmering red glow. Darius had a nagging feeling that the weapon looked almost… _hungry_.

The darkin looked up when he heard Darius approaching. He tilted his head to the side and seemed to look straight through the Noxian.

" _The Complete Anatomy Of The Yordles_ , by Daniel Coupable. Interesting choice," Aatrox commented, though Darius had no idea how he managed to read the title from that angle. "Came to do some light reading?"

Calling the massive medical tome "light reading" was somewhat belittling, but at least it proved that the darkin had some sense of humor. Darius, along with all the Noxians, was under strict orders not to cause any trouble, so he indented to be civil with his fellow champion.

"That's one way to put it. I didn't expect to have company here." He glared pointedly at the darkin who stared back with unblinking eyes.

"You are not the only one who felt that his choice of literature would arouse unwanted questions," he rumbled. Then, much to Darius's astonishment, he moved over to the farther end of the bench, leaving a considerable empty space for the Noxian. He still invaded Aatrox's personal space when he sat down because of the broad wings, but he didn't seem touchy about it.

"What are you reading?" Darius asked as he took a seat. It was the sort of personal question one simply did _not_ ask the Darkin Blade, he knew it very well, but if Aatrox didn't want to answer he shouldn't have mentioned it. Anyway, it wasn't as if he wouldn't back off if he said that it was none of Darius's business.

"Lady Strongshield's _From Soul, Hearth and Courage_ ," Aatrox said, his eyes returning to the yellowing pages.

For a very long moment, Darius didn't know what to say. He was taken aback to say the least.

"You seem surprised," Aatrox chuckled, turning the page. "Is it so uncharacteristic for me to appreciate poetry?"

It wasn't, now that Darius thought about it. Aatrox was exactly the kind of person who would go waxing poetic about his 'art'. And Lady Strongshield was a rakkor poet renowned for her war poems, among other things.

The other thing she was known for was love poetry so sweet it gave you cavities. Darius somehow doubted that Aatrox was an overly romantic soul.

He was also looking intently at him again, so Darius tried to steer the subject to slightly different waters.

"Is this the same Strongshield who wrote _Letters to a Thorny Rose_?" he asked, opening his own book. The _Rose_ was the rakkor's most famous collection, not surprising in the lights of the full title: _Letters to a Thorny Rose, or Advice on How to Woe Foreign Men and Women Alike_. Hidden in the flower metaphors and sugar-sweet coating was a collection of romantic conquests of different classes, cultures and nations and contained the exact methods on how to do the same.

"Indeed. I find myself surprised that you are familiar with that… _book_." There was a distaste here that proved Darius's theory that Aatrox favored only the war poetry and not the romantic musings.

"I share a room with Draven," the Noxian said with a shrug. A book that makes you look cultured and has solid instructions on how to pick up a date? Of course his brother knew it inside out and by proxy, so did Darius to some extent. "It's the secret of his success, or so he says. Works every time."

"Your brother is grossly exaggerating as always," Aatrox commented offhandedly, eyes returning to his read.

Darius on the other hand had completely forgotten about his own. He didn't like everything Draven did – more like most of the things Draven did – but as the older brother he still felt the urge to protect his sibling.

"Do you call Draven a liar?" he asked sharply.

"Did your brother ever managed to bed a rakkor with Strongshield's manual?" Aatrox retaliated and, when his question was met with long, fuming silence, said "I thought so."

"You know something I don't."

"Yes. I used to know Strongshield." He flipped to the first page of his book and showed it to Darius. The dedication read: _to that bastard darkin, who leads my sword in battle._

"Charming."

"It was, by her standards. These are her best works, real masterpieces of war poetry. She felt she owed me this much after she used me as a – what was the expression? – date magnet."

"I call bullshit," Darius said instantly, struggling to imagine Aatrox involved in anything to do with seduction.

"I spent a few decades in rakkor territory in the days they had regular campaigns. Some believed me a god even." He huffed a laugh. "Strongshield's mastery of words was enough reason for me to put up with her from time to time and to a warrior, " _the god of war tolerates me better than most_ " was a fairly appealing pick-up line in that period. A successful enough method that she never bothered to try other among her own people"

"Hmph."

"I would expect less skepticism from a warrior reading advanced medical notes."

"I would not be half as bloody good a warrior if I didn't. My trademark strikes take years of practice and thorough anatomical knowledge to land."

"You possess the brute strength to chop a man's head off with one strike. One could argue that you need not rely on precision to kill," Aatrox pointed out. There was an unasked question there- Unvoiced to give him a chance to evade It if he wished, but after the darkin so readily admitted being sort of friends with a poet and seductress, Darius decided to answer it anyway.

"I wanted to be a doctor when I was young. The interest still lingers."

Darius remembered when he finally gave up on his goal to pursue medicine. He was already a big, strong kid when their parents died. Draven was young, too young to work, so he needed a way to make a living before they could end up on the streets. There was no room left for pointless dreams or funding to waste. Enlisting to the army was the reasonable thing to do – he had regular pay to put food on the table and a roof over Draven's head and he was _good_ at fighting. Never understood the bloodlust some of the others felt, but he was good enough in his cold, methodical way to get into the Noxian Military Academy and earn the patronage of a wealthy family. The rest was history.

Thankfully, Aatrox didn't press the issue.

"Your talents would have been wasted as a medic," was all he said before he returned to his book.

Darius waited a few more moments for further comments. None came, but the darkin suddenly went rigid beside him. A look of annoyance crossed Aatrox's face and he lifted one of his legs from the water, now trapped by an intricate weaving of spiky roots up to his knee, bleeding slightly.

It appeared that the water lilies gnawed on his tough skin long enough to pierce it.

"Are these weeds poisonous?" he asked, tearing away the clingy flora.

To Darius's knowledge they were meant to cause instantaneous paralysis, hence the rule 'stay out of the water'.

"Not really. If they bother you, there's a bigger bench away from the water just by the venomous laburnum," Darius suggested, hoping to have his hideaway all to himself again.

"Venomous?" Aatrox asked, narrowing his eyes. Darius waved a hand in the air.

"It doesn't bite unless you try to pick its flowers."

"That's reassuring." Despite his clear doubts, Aatrox heeded the advice and with a parting nod left to find a reading spot more suited for his impressive stature. Darius watched him disappear behind a wild hedge, slightly favoring his right leg.

With a shake of his head the Noxian picked up his book, intent on enjoying a calm afternoon of reading.

Finally alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can imagine Aatrox hanging around the Rakkor, after all they are a nation that turned war into art and a lifestyle. 
> 
> Ironically, we did have a lesser known poet that wrote poems about the glory and beauty of war and battles - it was fitting for the period, when people needed the encouragement to fight in the rebellions - and later in his life, a book full of saccharine romance as a bet. I can't recall his name any more, but he served the inspiration for Aatrox's old 'friend'.


	10. Orianna and Rek'Sai - Fetch!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A match to test the new champions obedience should be a serious matter - but there are days when nobody knows how to take things seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on a drawing for a local LOL contest, and couldn't help but write a bit about it. ;) (Picture will be attached once done.)

It was a nice day on the Rift. Sunny and warm, exactly the kind of spring morning that you wouldn’t want to spend fighting. As a consequence, both the champions and the summoners were easier to distract than usual. They had to wait ten minutes for one of the summoners to even show up and Twitch and Zac were so absorbed in their chitchat that they almost walked into the red team’s teleport station instead of the blue one.

Orianna had been mostly immune to the distractions, but she took fascination in analyzing the changed behavior of her fellow champions. For example, she overheard Zac planning to take the children out for a picnic and doing his best to convince a reluctant Twitch to accompany them.

“It will be fun. I’ll bring some of that cheese that you like and you could use some fresh air,” said the Secret Weapon in a trademark Happy Voice. After her previous observations, Orianna didn’t doubt that Zac would enjoy the outing, but her personal notes through 158 to 227 showed that he had a tendency to display theatrically exaggerated emotions. She deduced that it was a mechanism to compensate for his limited facial expressions.

“No! I don’t do fresh air. I don’t do fresh anything,” rebuffed the rat, its whiskers twitching in annoyance.

“There will be other people at the park you know,” Zac added in a hushed tone, resorting to a different tactic. “Couples even. Jayce bragged about landing a date with Caitlyn this morning. If you happened to, I don’t know, sneak away for a little while to put salt in her tea, I couldn’t do anything to stop you.”

“Now _that’s_ what I would call fun! I might consider doing it, just for the sake of our friendship you know. I wouldn’t suffer through a whole afternoon of fresh air and, hrmph, _sunshine_ – he shuddered in disgust - for anyone else.”

“Of course Twitch. You are a buddy.”

Orianna would have continued her observation – this was a fascinating addition to her logs already – when she got almost run over by something big and purple.

She turned to stare straight into the gaping maw of the newest Voidborn addition to the League, the beast called Rek’Sai.

“My apologies,” came a sinister voice from the other side of the beast and Malzahar floated into her line of sight. “The ticking of your machinery fascinates her.”

Rek’Sai let out a series of clicking sounds, pushing its head closer to Orianna. Curious, not malicious, but the attention was unwanted nonetheless.

Malzahar put all of his weight into pushing the beast away, trying to steer it away from the Lady of Clockwork.

“Go ahead, please. She will behave once under the control of the summoner, but if anything goes wrong, I have a teleportation spell ready.” The Prophet’s burning eyes bore into Orianna’s own and she didn’t feel like arguing.

“That is considerate of you,” she droned with a stiff bow and made her way to the teleportation point with rapid steps.

Orianna put her jungler out of her mind for the beginning of the match – her lane against Azir was going decently, but she could tell that the Shuriman wasn’t giving it his all. Her summoner was giving far too aggressive orders that had put her close to dying on two separate occasions within the first five minutes and he let her walk away without giving the killing blow both times.

“You are not taking this seriously,” she noted when the emperor sent two of his soldiers far, choosing to farm over a clear opportunity to attack.

“This is but a training match to test the Burrower’s obedience,” answered the Shuriman and with a lazy wave of his hand sent a soldier to the brush to check for a possible gank. It would be logical for the jungler to visit their lane as he had pushed Orianna far under her turret. “I do not plan to waste my energy on… what was the expression Sivir used? Ah yes. Tryharding.”

“I was not aware you are updating your language database,” Orianna said, getting in a nice hit with the Ball. The Shuriman had a point; there was not much reason to take the match too seriously under the circumstances, so she might as well use the opportunity to fine-tune her conversational modules.

“I try to catch up to the current times. An Emperor needs to be an exemplar of his people,” Azir said in a tone that she categorized under ‘conversational’.

Back and forth, they traded blows and words, but mostly words. She got occasional orders from her summoner, but he must have come to the same conclusion as the champions and mostly kept his interference to notifying her about the position of her teammates. The beast first ganked top, then roamed bot to protect Ezreal and Thresh them from Zac who had set up camp there. Orianna was tempted to join the 3v3 fight, but Azir made certain that she was always below half health which made the endeavor far too risky.

At long last her summoner gave a heads up that Rek’Sai was coming mid. Azir had pushed far and didn’t bother to put a ward in the upper bush for several minutes, which made it as ideal a gank as possible.

_“Now!”_ came the order and Orianna commanded her Ball forward the same time Rek’Sai burrowed into the lane for a knock up. The sudden attack caught Azir unaware, but the Emperor was a slippery one. She managed to clip him with her Shockwave, but he used his Shifting Sands to move away.

Caught on the other side of a minion wave, Orianna was too far to pursue him, but Rek’Sai wasn’t and her summoner had previously reassured her that the beast was strong enough to dive after the Shuriman. As a logical action, she commanded the Ball to shield the creature, expecting it to go right after the fleeing enemy.

She didn’t expect it to catch the Ball in its maw and turn back towards her, Azir all but forgotten. She stared backing away from the beast, but her tower wouldn’t protect her from her own teammate…

“Malzahar. Immediate assistance required,” She asked in the emergency channel and within a second heard the reassuring sound of an incoming teleportation. Still, even as its master appeared, the beast kept advancing on her, its tail thumping heavily on the ground.

“Rek’Sai, back!” Malzahar barked the order, but the beast only let out a whine and kept coming. If anything, it had sped up.

Orianna’s back hit the tower. She was cornered and without the Ball, she had no means of self defense left and the creature just kept _coming_ closer and closer.

About two meters from her and her impending system failure, the Burrower suddenly stopped dead in its tracks. It tilted its head to the side, tail still beating a lazy beat on the ground and then abruptly let the Ball out of its maw. Orianna’s eyes automatically followed as the sphere fell and her jaw dropped in shock when the beast whined again and nudged the Ball towards her with its head.

“I think she wants to… play?” Malzahar suggested, just as flabbergasted as Orianna. Now that she had enough behavior samples, she could see it as well: the wagging tail, the lifted front paw, typical ‘play-with-me’ dog behavior.

As an experiment, she commanded the Ball to lift up and sent it flying to the distance with a ‘whoosh’ sound. Rek’Sai, nightmare of the desert and the most vicious beast known in Runeterra, had chased after it with such abandon that she almost tripped over her own legs. Within seconds, she had the Ball secure in her maw again and trotted back to drop it in front of Orianna, ready for another round.

“Good… girl? Malzahar suggested hesitantly, the phrase sounding atrociously out of place coming from his mouth.

And that was the point when Azir started laughing uncontrollably.

This is how the rest of the teams found them when they came to check on their mid lane: Malzahar so shocked that he forgot about floating and was standing on the ground, Orianna obediently if a bit mechanically – no pun intended - playing fetch with an ecstatic Rek’Sai and Azir laughing so hard that he needed the support of his soldiers to stay upright.

After that, the summoners declared the match a draw and finished early – something to do with “not even the animal taking it seriously any more”. Nobody minded it much; at least this way they had more time to spend in the park, enjoying the sunshine without the danger of impending, if strictly temporal, death. They even convinced Orianna to come with them to the park and she put up only superficial resistance.

_This is one of those special days_ , she decided as she sent the Ball flying, much to the joy of one very happy Void Burrower.


	11. Garen - A Day for Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to the renovation of the Institute, the Demacians are forced to share the same training space as the Noxians, among others. Garen isn't happy about this arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is crazy and I suffered a lot with this chapter. I hope it's still up to quality with the rest of them.  
> Even if it's not, it has URGOT and Urgot makes everything better. And it has a little extra at the end. ;P

In many a sense, the ongoing renovation of the Institute of War was a pain in the rear. In all frankness, it was more of a complete overhaul than a simple renovation - they tore down the old Faction quarters and rebuilt them from the ground up, which forced most of the visiting champions to move in the main wing until their new buildings were habitable.

Some argued that the end result would be more than worth the temporary discomfort of living in an apartment the size of a shoebox or in the immediate vicinity of your worst rival. The summoners had promised that the new quarters would fit the nations better than the old buildings had and so far, it appeared that they intend to stick to their word; they even hired workers from the respective areas.

Slowly, but steadily, they built smithies, training rooms, meditation gardens, bakeries and more, the buildings finally different enough that you could tell them apart by sight, not only by the signs above the door.

Of course, when the construction of the new buildings goes at different speed, Demacia and Noxus will make a contest out of finishing first. And much to the surprise of everyone, Noxus had won this particular race, hands down. The Demacian main building still had at least a two months’ worth of work before anyone could move in when the Noxians threw their house-warming party.

To add insult to injury, Jericho Swain gave permission to the Demacians to use the Noxian training room. It was an act of goodwill, he insisted, but only Jarvan was inclined to believe him.

Still, after a few remarkable incidents in the crowded common training rooms – like the occasion when Hecarim kicked Lucian in an unspecified body part because the Purifier threatened to put enough holes in Thresh to make the warden pass for a sieve – that the Demacians decided to take Swain up on his offer. Better the devil you know.

So here they were, a choice group of brave Demacians, ready to walk into the beast’s cave. They’ve been standing in front of the building for a good twenty minutes now, waiting for Jarvan to arrive when a window opened and revealed a grinning Talon. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down.

“J4 says he’s not coming. Something diplomacy happened. Drag yourself in here before you take root.”

Garen made an outraged sound when Talon called the prince of Demacia ‘J4’ and planned on directing a lecture at the grinning assassin, but his companions were already fed up with standing around. They grabbed him by the arms and dragged him inside before he could get started.

He kept huffing even as Lux excitedly chattered by his side.

“… you know, I expected it to be more dark. More fitting to the evil of Noxus, but it’s pretty plain.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t waste the evil décor on the _training hall_.” Garen spun around, spotting Vladimir leaning against the wall, observing a well-manicured hand. He had no idea how the blood mage managed to sneak up on them like that. “We keep that in the living quarters, to make the place more homey.”

Lux seemed delighted by the idea.

“Do you have smoky candles and bones and skulls and blood-red curtains and suites of armor and those windows that make it look like it’s always dusk?” She asked as she got carried away by the idea of decoration fitting for a ghost castle.

Vladimir seemed slightly taken aback and very amused at the same time.

“Well, I’m partial to blood-colored curtains and I know that Darius keeps a whole skeleton in his closet.” Garen stared at him with complete horror and he almost dropped his sword when Darius spoke just behind him.

“It’s just a medical skeleton, bloodsucker. Go back to the forge and make yourself useful.” Vladimir shrugged and sauntered through a high, arced door.

Darius stared after him with murderous eyes.

“He knows he’s needed elsewhere and he still wanders away every chance he gets,” the big Noxian muttered not quite under his breath, turning his attention back to the Demacians. The glare he gave Garen could make milk go sour, but he was noticeably less hostile towards Lux.

“He won’t bother you more. This way.”

The actual training room itself was huge, with smaller sections separated for the forge and weapons storage, a resting area and other parts that didn’t seem fully furnished yet. Quite a few people were there, practicing in pairs. Much to his surprise Garen spotted Nasus near the back, happily reorganizing a bookshelf full of fencing manuals and Sivir and Katarina were taking turns throwing daggers at a target.

“I didn’t know the Shurimans were there as well,” he remarked, following Darius to the rest of his own group.

“There’s no reason not to let them in. They keep the equipment in good shape and they are not enemies of Noxus.” They watched Sivir carefully balance a dagger before throwing it, hitting the dead center of the target. Both she and Katarina looked expectantly at Talon and Cassiopeia, the two lazy   assassins lying on a heap of unused mats. They scribbled something with chalk on a plate each and held it up; 3 points from Cass, 9 from Talon.

This, predictably, lead to an argument. Oddly enough, Katarina was the one to start it, taking Sivir’s side, while Talon pretended not to be there at all.

“ _HERE ARE THE WEAPONS YOU REQUESTED._ ”

It seemed today was the unofficial Startle Garen Day. Though truth to be told, facecheking Urgot’s ugly mug had caused more than one heart attack, still Garen felt a fledge of embarrassment that he got so easily spooked today; he was on edge already without Noxians constantly sneaking up on him.

The... _creature_ , as he was reluctant to calling Urgot a man, handed out a long spear and an elegant rapier to Xin Zhao and Fiora; training replicas of their own armaments.

“ _THEY ARE DULL AS LEE SIN’S EYESIGHT, BUT TRY NOT TO CLUB ANYONE TO DEATH WITH THEM_ ,” Urgot warned, adjusting some of the weapons showcased on the wall. “ _RESURRECTION AND CLEANING UP AFTERWARDS TAKES AWAY ALL THE FUN FROM SEEING YOU DIE. NOT TO MENTION THE REPAIRS.”_

Apparently, the undead abomination was the quartermaster in charge of the equipment. Interesting choice, but as he watched the unsettling creature work, Garen had to admit that he seemed competent at his job.

“Do you have a crossbow with similar draw weight?” Urgot carefully took Quinn’s weapon in his pincers and examined it closely.

“ _YES, I HAVE TWO. ONE OF THEM IS IN STORAGE, BUT DO US ALL A FAVOUR AND CONFISCATE THE ONE AZIR IS USING. IT’S THE BETTER MAKE AND IT WOULD MAKE US ALL FEEL SAFER._ ”

Garen looked around, wondering how he missed the telltale glint of gold. After his experience with Jax a few months ago, he was only slightly surprised to identify the emperor as a remarkably unremarkable person. He looked disappointingly mundane if you could disregard for a moment that he was technically a humanoid falcon. He seemed to avert attention away from himself, possibly because of all that grey.

He also looked very much of a health hazard, mostly because of the crossbow he held in his hands. Azir regarded the weapon with the same caution and suspicion others would reserve for Zigg’s bombs. Possibly because of his magical nature, this sight gave anyone watching the nagging feeling that if he ever pulled the trigger, the bolt would do its best to live up to that distrust and find itself a suitable place – like someone’s jugular, for instance. It put everyone present on edge.

Quinn wasn’t immune to the effect either.

“Right away,” she murmured, hurrying away. It will probably work in her favour that she had an excuse to approach the Emperor anyway, Garen decided. At least she would stop bothering them with her guesses about what breed of bird the ascended being resembled the most.

“ _AND WHAT CAN I GIVE YOU TWO?_ ”

Garen looked up at the patiently wobbling mountain of meat that was Urgot.

“Nothing. I brought my own weapons.” Urgot pointed his blade at an engraved plaque on the wall.

“ _NO OUTSIDE WEAPONS ALLOWED. IF YOU WANT TO USE A SPECIFIC WEAPON, LEAVE IT HERE AND WE MAKE A REPLICA BY TOMORROW._ ”

With a stubby arm he gestured behind him, to the smithy area. It was dark, but the malicious red light of the forge revealed a familiar, towering silhouette. Sion hammered away at the red-hot metal with the monotone stubbornness of someone who didn’t have much thinking going on.

“Is he any good?” Garen asked, sincerely doubting that the Undead Juggernaut had ever held a hammer in his hand before.

“ _COULD BE BETTER OR WORSE. HE MAKES DECENT PRACTICE WEAPONS AND IT KEEPS HIM OCCUPIED AND DOCILE._ ” As if he wanted to discredit the other Noxian undead, Sion threw down his hammer with an enraged roar and started to hammer away with his bare fists.

Vladimir slipped out from the deepest shadows, weaving a ribbon of red around their appointed blacksmith. Garen grimaced at the thought of the dark blood magic, but it seemed to have an effect in calming the big guy. So _this_ was why it was important for Vladimir to stay near the forge.

Urgot carried on as if nothing happened.

“ _SO, WHAT WAS IT YOU NEEDED?_ ”

“Two claymores, one for me and another for my sister. I want to teach her the basics of bladework.”

For a moment, Garen was certain Urgot was choking on something. Then he realised that he was laughing.

“Do you have a problem with my request?!” the Demacian demanded.

“ _FOR A FINE LADY WHO DOESN’T MAKE IT A HABIT TO WEAR HEAVY ARMOR, A SWORD AND A BUCKLER WOULD BE A MORE SUITABLE FIRST WEAPON._ ” The abomination suggested, scuttling back to the weapon racks. He returned with a straight sword and a small round shield. “ _IT PROVIDES MORE DEFENCE THAN A CLAYMORE WOULD.”_

Lux picked up the sword and the shield, giving them a swing.

“I like them! Thanks.” For the first time since he told her that she needed to learn how to use a weapon, she seemed eager to try.

“I don’t know the forms for sword-and-shield fighting,” Garen grit out, unwilling to admit his shortcoming.

“ _ASK DARIUS FOR POINTERS, HE USED TO TEACH AT THE ACADEMY. I’M SURE HE WILL BE_ EAGER _TO HELP._ ” Urgot recommended with zero consideration for the longstanding rivalry between the two men.

Garen squared his jaw and said nothing. Urgot was unaffected by the silent treatment and kept organising the weapons laid out on the workbench. After a few minutes, he looked up again.

“ _ARE YOU STILL HERE?_ ”

“Darius wouldn’t help me. We are rivals; sworn enemies.”

“ _WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT YOU? THE YOUNG MISSY’S THE ONE WHO NEEDS TRAINING._ ” He picked up a broadsword similar in size to Garen’s own and threw it to the warrior. “ _HOP ALONG AND DON’T WASTE ME TIME._ ”

Garen caught the sword with a grimace.

“Come Lux, let’s go!”

But, as it happened, Lux wasn’t there anymore. She was by the training dummies in the company of the Blood Brothers. Draven was chatting with Lux while Darius was setting up a target for her to use. Garen felt his blood pressure rise at the sight of the younger brother – Draven was shamelessly flirting with Lux and she played along! She even giggled – giggled! – at something the executioner said.

Garen stomped his way to the three of them, his face set in a deep frown.

“Lux!” His sister jumped, dropping her sword. “What are you doing in their company?” he demanded.

“Chill, soldier! We are just rigging her up a suitable training space,” Draven grinned, picked up Lux’s sword and handed it back to her. “And boost her confidence with anecdotes from the time we were beginners.”

Darius wordlessly shook his head at the antics of his brother.

“I was just about to tell her about the time Darius wanted to learn fighting with a war hammer and dropped it on his foot. Broke a couple of bones with it.” Garen looked at Draven doubtfully, but he seemed sincere enough.

“That’s a story I’d want to hear.”

“There’s nothing more to it. Draven just likes to hear his own voice,” Darius grumbled from the side.

“Hell yeah! Don’t tell me there are people who wouldn’t want to listen to the glorious Draven,” exclaimed the younger brother with feigned shock.

Lux giggled. Garen groaned. Darius just wore the expression of someone who had heard this more than he ever wanted to.

Darius wordlessly stood and practically threw a training shield and sword matching Lux’s at his brother.

“Make yourself useful and show her the basic stances,” he snapped, then abruptly turned to Garen. “Watch carefully. I don’t want to waste my whole day on you.”

Darius walked away before Garen could retort. The Demacian muttered a curse under his breath, his attention quickly returning to Draven who was once again chatting up his sister.

He quickly jumped in, doing his best to maintain a five-step distance between his sister and the womanizer Noxian. He could have tried to keep the sea dry; it would have been just as feasible an undertaking. He hovered so much that finally Lux lost her patience.

“Garen, I’m an adult! I can take care of myself. Go pester someone else!”

He would have liked to punch the smug look from Draven’s face, but he didn’t want to cause a rift between Lux and himself. Their relationship was already tense enough, the unconditional childhood trust cracked by the time spent apart and their differing opinions on the Demacian army.

He wandered away, tallying his options. Vladimir had ditched the smithy again and sat cross-legged on the counter, eating a disappointingly ordinary sandwich. Xin Zhao had found a sparring partner in Talon who felt better to leave the Du Couteau sisters to their ever growing argument. Garen considered joining them as he did like a good hand-to-hand fight every now and then, but decided against it when they started to use underhanded moves. A gladiator and a once-street rat; both of them were seasoned street fighters. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

At the far back, Nasus was in deep academic discussion with Fiora about the best blades in history, a topic far too dry for Garen’s taste. Quinn was still occupied with Azir, the crossbow all but forgotten, probably bothering him with weird ornithological questions. It was a conversation Garen was completely certain that he didn’t want to hear.

He glanced back at Darius. The man had decided to break up the disagreement around the women’s knife throwing contest and appointed himself judge.

Things didn’t go according to plan and Garen watched with satisfaction as Darius argued with Cassiopeia – the younger Du Couteau sister kept knocking Sivir’s daggers out of the air.

“We all want a fair competition, so stop interfering you blasted serpent!” Cassiopeia gasped for air and Katarina forcefully stepped on his foot, but the words were out and there was no taking them back. The younger sister shrunk back, protectively coiling around herself and gloom settling on her face, but when it was Sivir’s turn to throw, her twin fangs knocked the knives out of the air just as before.

That was the last straw for Sivir.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m done. We’ll settle this later.” She was about to storm out, but a sudden voice stopped her in her tracks. As they had ascended to the center of attention – even Talon and Xin Zhao stopped their brawl to watch them – it was little surprise that Azir was among the eavesdroppers as well. It was more surprising that he was the one calling out to Sivir.

Garen had never heard the Shuriman native language before, but it sounded nice. It was melodic, almost musical sounding, but – coming from Azir at least – it felt a tad snobbish.

Whatever her ancestor told her, Sivir wasn’t happy to hear it. She snapped back something, but after some gentle prodding from Azir, she took a calming breath and returned to the others.

“Don’t ask,” she warned Katarina even before the Noxian could ask what that was all about. “Your turn.”

The redhead gave the mercenary a questioning look, but the other just shrugged.

She carefully balanced the knife in her hand and with a swift movement, threw it.

It was promptly knocked from the air by a stray crossbow bolt.

A dozen eyes glued themselves to Azir, who was, as far as Garen could judge, just as bewildered as everyone else. The crossbow was still pointed at his own target.

“I am sorry. I have no idea how that happened. I still don’t quite have a hang of this weapon.”

The stares remained fastened on him. A few eyebrows rose in doubt.

“He’s right,” Quinn chimed in. “I saw it. He missed the target and the bolt just...,” she made a wide gesture with her arms. “ricocheted off the wall and hit the knife.”

To prove his sincerity Azir lifted the crossbow up again - half of his audience took a cautions step backwards at the sight of his unsteady aim – and let the next bolt loose. It missed the target completely, then ricocheted off the rough stone wall and went flying towards the farther end of the room.

“The universe has a sense of humour when it comes to poetic justice,” murmured Darius and that was that. Everyone returned to their own training and Garen returned to check on Lux.

Ten minutes and a black eye later Draven swore up and down that he was just adjusting Lux’s stance, but if he were any clingier, Garen would have needed a crowbar to remove the Executioner from his sister. Lux didn’t seem to mind the Noxian’s inappropriately hands-on approach, which made Garen even angrier at the smug bastard.

Occupied as such, Garen missed how the fight broke out. Well, it wasn’t so much a fight as three people trying to hold back a furious, violently squirming Cassiopeia from strangling the Emperor of Shurima. His Noxian was decent, but he could understand maybe half of the words the snake woman screamed at Azir. He wagered he could guess what the rest meant.

Even Darius couldn’t hold Cassio for long – her serpentine tail slipped from his grip and he wisely retreated when the woman swiped at him with her poisonous claws – and within moments she was lunging at Azir, lighting fast with murder in her eyes.

The Emperor merely sidestepped from her path with effortless ease. Her momentum propelled her forward and she fell, luckily not to the hard ground but to one of the training mats. In a moment she was readying for her next strike, down on her belly like a wild beast – this allowed Azir to step on her back and pin her to the ground in an undignified position.

Cassiopeia went deadly still when she felt the pinprick of talons on her neck. She had claws, but so did Azir and while his were not of the poisonous variety, the talons on his feet were as sharp as any hawk’s.

“Now, calm down. Your behaviour is not fit of a noble lady of a good family.” His voice was stern, but calm, no trace of fear in it. “After such a wild exercise, I suggest you return to your room and rest. Meditate on your actions. I will let you up now.”

Cassio reluctantly straightened up after Azir stepped away, but her face was burning and her eyes were shiny as she fought her tears. Katarina swiftly excused herself and held her sister by an arm, gently leading her away.

As they passed him, Garen caught a whispered half-sentence between two silent sobs, so quiet he wasn’t certain it was even real.

“... he sounds just like daddy did.”

The mood had definitely dropped after they left. Sensing the gloom settled on the room, Urgot ordered them out a hour later.

“ _THAT’S ENOUGH SWEAT FOR TODAY. EVERYBODY OUT, BEFORE I LOCK YOU IN FOR A WEEK.”_ It was clearly an excuse, but none of them minded – especially not Garen, as this meant that he can finally get Lux out of the sights of Draven.

On the way back to the temporary quarters, they walked with the Shurimans and as Lux was animatedly chattering with Fiora – and pointedly not talking to her brother – he had nothing better to do than follow the quiet conversation between Azir and Sivir, in the common tongue this time.

“... it seems like too much of a coincidence that the bolt ricocheted just so.”

“It might not have entirely been a coincidence.”

“I knew it! Then why did you say that you never held a crossbow before?”

“Because I never did. They weren’t widespread in my time. But I used to be a decent marksman with a regular bow and they are not that different.”

“If that was just ‘decent’ I want to see what you are expert at.”

“Trust me, my long distance shots are truly a disaster. I never had good enough eyesight to train with the military archers.”

“Then how...?”

“Oh, for a bored prince locked up in the gardens there are many worse hobbies than trick shooting.”

“Such as?”

“Every tried to tickle a crocodile? We had one in the fountain.”

“Why would anyone do _that_?”

“It started hiccupping if you tickled it in just the right spot.”

Garen didn’t really know what to do with that piece of information – or if the Emperor was even serious – but the disbelieving stare told him that neither did Sivir.

As the topic change, he felt he was trespassing on something private, not meant for his ears. He made it a point to fell a few steps behind, just outside of earshot and let the girls’ chatter wash over him – fashion, he deemed, was a much safer topic than crocodiles.

* * *

**A little extra** : Emperor Birb in a hoodie. :D

He's totally a dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for now. Liked it? Hated it? Please consider leaving a comment.
> 
> A bit of teaser, after such a long wait between chapters: I'm working on the next one as it was supposed to be Fool's Day themed. But then it somehow got a bit gloomy and my headcanons ran away with me soo...
> 
> It will have Lucian and Thresh and some of the Shadow Isles gang and there will be random people dressing up in the background. :D  
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


	12. Sivir, Azir - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sivir's grumpy, because she was forced out of her room and spent the night on a very uncomfortable couch. Azir tries to make her feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a computer crash, I've lost the Lucian-Thresh chapter I wanted to post next and need to rewrite it. :( I couldn't finish it yet, so that will go up in two pieces later.

As a mercenary, Sivir had her share of sleeping in unsuitable places. Even the richest of contractors liked to cut down the cost of living quarters for the "thugs" as they regarded them. After all, the easiest way to stay rich was to be a cheapskate.

Still, all those years of sleeping in barns and even on the ground couldn't prepare her for the disaster that was Azir's couch. As the Shuriman main building was still in construction, he still lived in that miserable mouse hole of a room and used the spare furnishing it came with.

The couch was the oldest of the pieces and started to show every single sign of it. Sivir had the dubious honor of experiencing it all first hand, every creaky spring and uncomfortable bump.

If it were up to her, Sivir would have never crashed on her ancestor's couch – she had been a champion for years after all and had already furnished her room just the way she liked it.

Her room, however, was currently uninhabitable. It was mysteriously flooded it the day before, forcing Sivir out until it dried. Her first thought was that it was Cassiopeia's doing – the Du Couteau girl blamed Sivir for her unfortunate transformation and she was petty enough for something like this. She couldn't prove it, but it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things.

What mattered was that despite the numerous, thick blankets Azir provided to make her more comfortable, she woke up with a persistent ache all along her back and neck, with her left arm stuck in a position that she couldn't even move it because of the lack of circulation.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, shrugged off the blankets and with a grimace tried to massage some circulation back into her arm. The curtains were closed, keeping the room nice and dark, but Sivir could faintly hear the sound of rain.

Azir was reading by the window, but looked up when he heard Sivir move.

"Good morning."

Sivir groaned. Sitting up made her aware of another set of aching muscles that she didn't know she possessed before.

"My everything hurts."

Knowing that she disliked the bitter tea he favored, Azir offered her a mug of overly sweet cocoa.

"I told you to use the bed. I would have been fine on the couch," he pointed out.

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm the guest, it would have been weird if I slept in the bed and you slept on the couch." She accepted the mug and took a sip.

"I think it would have been weird only if we both slept in the bed. And as you said, I am the host it is well within my right to offer."

"My knight in shining armor. Would you seriously suffer in my stead?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. Among the positive aspects of my ascension is faster healing."

"No sore muscles?"

"No sore muscles."

There was a smug look on his face. Sivir still wasn't adept at guessing his expressions, but she knew a smug look when she saw one.

"Shouldn't you be preparing for your match?" she asked, trying to change the topic.

Azir snapped his beak, a gesture she learned to interpret as annoyance.

"They postponed it due to some irregularity in the turrets' magic. One of them started to shoot its own team as well as the enemy."

Sivir furrowed her brows. Some glitches were usual on the Rift. It was the inevitable side effect of the constant changes the summoners were making and everyone learned to live with them. A turret shooting everyone in sight, however, was far more than the ordinary glitch in the magic.

"I never heard of a malfunction like that. They must suspect sabotage."

"I believe so. They were in quite a haste to remove every powerful caster from the Twisted Treeline's rooster as well." It remained unsaid, but Sivir got the implications: the summoners suspected that the malfunction was one of the champions' doing.

Azir circled around until he stood behind Sivir. "I know you have contacts among the summoners. Discretely ask around, maybe one of them heard something. I have a bad feeling about this." He rested his palms against Sivir's shoulders and channeled some magic through her sore muscles. Sivir couldn't help but relax under the touch as the warmth of magic soothed the ache.

"Hmm, okay, I'll sniff around. Don't you dare to stop!"

Azir chuckled.

"You remind me of a desert cat at times."

"Coming from you, Emperor Pigeon, I will take that as a compliment."

"You will achieve nothing with insults. Or perhaps you want to deal with your sore muscles on your own?" Sivir tilted her head back to look at him.

"Oh please. This has to be the weakest attempt at blackmail I ever heard."

Azir removed his hands. The warmth receded and the pain returned – it even intensified, if such a thing was possible.

Underhanded bastard.

"Okay, you win. No more insults." _For a while, at least_. "Now put those healing hands back." For more emphasis, she grabbed one of his wrists and dragged his hand back to the sorest spot.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Azir slightly shaking his head at her antics.

She turned her attention back to her cocoa, trying her damnedest to ignore how fricking weird the whole situation was.

Despite the several generations between them, Azir was alike her in a lot of things – well, that's an exaggeration, but he was likeminded enough that she easily grew accustomed to think of him as family. The issues started when she tried to pin a role to him inside the broad category of 'family'.

Their actual relation – great-great-great-something-something _grandfather_ – was out of question. He simply didn't have the mindset for it and wasn't _that_ old fashioned. The same way, he was unfit for the role of a big brother – it showed that he was a good decade older when he died than Sivir was now and had too much of a patronizing, 'fatherly' vibe to be called a big bro. He might have made a good uncle, but Sivir remembered her uncles a bit too vividly to ever want more.

In the end, she simply gave up and let Azir decide how close he wanted them to be. At times, especially after a tough job that didn't pay nearly enough, she wished that he would distance himself. Then she could think of him as a cash cow again, as a golden ticket to the throne of Shurima.

But Azir, despite all of his shortcomings, was very easy to like and he held onto Sivir like his life depended on it. In a sense, maybe it did: he was out of his time and she provided a point he could fixate on and hold onto. It was tiring sometimes and he could get positively fussy when the mood took him, but all things considered, it wasn't too bad to play anchor for someone whose life turned topsy-turvy in a hurricane of events.

Especially when he made her cocoa (with enough sugar to make Lulu think twice about drinking it) and knew how to ease the pain, even when it was the consequence of her own stupid decision.

Sivir downed the last of her drink then stifled a yawn. Not only was she still sore – though Azir made a great job of remedying that – she felt like she didn't sleep at all. Now that she noticed, she felt downright drowsy.

Azir snatched the mug from her hands and started to steer her towards the bed.

"You need to rest, Sivir. You look dead on your feet," he said in a tone that left no place for argument. "A few hours of actual sleep won't hurt anyone."

She wanted to argue just for the hell of it, but couldn't find the will to do it, drowsiness quickly overcoming her. Even if she had the strength, it would have been pointless to even try to argue. Azir could be quiet mercenary about taking care of his own, no pun intended, though his methods were rather unorthodox at times.

So she went without complaint and let herself be tucked in. She will get back at Azir for this later when she wasn't so comfy, she decided before she drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter, but is that a hint of a plot I spy there? Maybe. As I can't write an exciting plot if my life depended on it, the focus would still be on the characters, but I want to put in at least one 'arc' to see if it will work out. 
> 
> Also note for this chapter: Azir might have put something in Sivir's cocoa to convince her to go back to rest. He doesn't really need sleep as such, not much at least, so he knows that Sivir had slept maybe two hours at most that night. He's a good emperor birb, he takes care of his only heiress whether she wants it or not.


	13. Morgana - Sweet things A to Z

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Snowdown when Morgana opens her new bakery at the Institute. The first day is always interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated Christmas chapter. I had some health issues lately that really slowed my writing down. 
> 
> Please enjoy. :)

Morgana adjusted the cakes on display in her brand new bakery. At times like this she was really content with her decision to settle down in Noxus. The general rebuilding around the Institute was crawling at the pace of a comatose snail, but the Noxian barracks were already standing tall and all the champions had comfortably settled in and that included her new shop as well. It was a shame she had to hand over the Noxian shop to her apprentices, but daily travel was clumsy and tiring and the summoners had barely let the champions out of their sights lately.

They all realized that it was starting to get out of hand when Swain and Darius had to pull diplomatic immunity to get away long enough to execute an important schemer and traitor – one of the less flashy executions with enough politics attached that fittingly, it was the no-nonsense Blood Brother carrying the deed out.

Draven always said that too much politics before breakfast ruined his day and Morgana wholeheartedly agreed. One refreshing quality of her unwilling relocation was that she was free to bake her cakes and delicacies and ignore politics altogether.

It also gave her the chance to knock her stubborn arse of a sister over the head every now and then. That was always a joy to look forward to.

She saw movement outside and turned her focus to the there and then, quickly looking the cakes and pastries. Something always went wrong on the opening day – it was probably one of the rules of the universe, she mused - and she wanted to ensure that whatever decided to go pear shaped, it was nothing major.

She made a small gesture with her hand that unlocked the door and flipped the little sign to “open” and waited.

It didn’t take long for the first clients to appear. The bakery was at a good location, there were many people passing by – champions, summoners, the staff and visitors alike – and what was more it was Snowdown. Everybody wanted to eat something nice on Snowdown.

Morgana just about to kick out a group of Shurimans who, she strongly suspected, sought out her shop because of the warmth when a very pink and very loud person found her way inside.

“Hey, howdy Gloomy? First day going great?” Vi grinned at her over the head of the Shurimans and started walking towards the counter with the stubbornness of a steam engine.

The Southerners must have realised that Vi, due to her oversized equipment and bouncy nature, managed to make every enclosed space feel crowded on her own and scrammed.

“What was with them?” she jabbed a finger behind her back, in the direction of the leaving group.

“They are part of the staff. Clerks, I think,” Morgana said offhandedly, but the cogs in her head were picking up speed, planning to widen the variety of her wares – something to appeal to every nation – and there was a lot of unused space, she could set up a few tables and maybe serve tea or coffee.

Now that she thought about it, almost every member of the staff she met seemed to be dying for a coffee.

She resurfaced from her thoughts to find Vi leaning over the counter, staring into her face with her brows furrowed.

“Wipe that expression off your face, or you’ll get stuck.”

“Don’t be like that, Gloomy. You spaced out there for a minute.” Vi lifted her hands in defence as she backed slightly away, her face twisting into fake hurt before her grin took over again.

“I just realised how vast my business opportunities are. What brings you here? Everything is completely legal, before you ask.”

“Relax, I’m not here to butt into your business. I’ll leave that to Cupcake.” Vi flashed a hundred-watt grin grinned and Morgana couldn’t help but crack a small smile herself. Talking to the enforcer was relaxing, in a way.

“Actually she’s the reason I’m here. She’s been really busy these past few weeks, you know, practicing the new changes and stuff and she kind of delegated the paperwork to me. To _me_. What was she thinking, right? Pft, me and paperwork. So I kind of... postponed it.” Morgana listened with fascination mixed with amusement as the tale unfolded.

“So, now that she’s got a little breather she’s going to check on the paperwork. And blow a gasket or three. So I thought I’ll buy her something to make it easier to take the news. A cupcake for Cupcake. That should improve her mood, right?” Vi’s expression turned into one of such wild hope that Morgana took pity on her.

“I think I have something that will get the good Sheriff in the holiday cheer – just enough that she won’t have a heart attack over the mountain of paperwork that’s awaiting her,” she added under her breath.

Vi, never one to do things by moderation, brought a dozen little Snowdown cupcakes and Morgana had to threaten to curse her to get the grateful Piltovian out of the shop. The last thing she needed is for Vi to scare off her other customers.

After she left, business was back to normal, for a while. Most of her patrons were of the staff, clerks and technicians with a summoner now and then. Morgana had to actually go and get some paper and pen to write down her ideas, but that was part of the excitement: new place, new challenges, new customers to conquer.

Between the matches, some of the champions showed up as well. Vladimir dropped in to buy some croissants and to flirt, an old routine between them. Lulu and Annie pressed their nose against the window until she had enough and invited them in. While the Sorceress swooned over some of the purple desserts, Annie was a little disappointed that Morgana didn’t have anything flambé that she could try.

Nami washed in, dragging a shy and apparently claustrophobic Nautilus with her and babbled excitedly about never trying any of the Snowdown desserts and bounced between the display cases like the waves bounce among the rocks of the shore. With the rumbling backing from Nautilus, Morgana had to talk her out of spending all of her monthly pay on sweets.

Suddenly distracted by a snowball fight that broke out just outside, Nami hurried to participate, but Nautilus, package of sweets carefully held in his broad hands, stopped and rumbled at her gratefully.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have talked her out of it on my own.”

Morgana looked at him, giant diving-suite awkwardly standing in a shop too small for him, barely daring to move in case he knocked something over. She patted one of his arms.

“Don’t mention it. Can I get _you_ anything?”

The red eyes dimmed as he stared at her silently for a long moment, then:

“I don’t eat anymore. Not like this.”

It left Morgana baffled, fishing for words and by the time she found them, he was already gone, very carefully closing the door behind him.

The conversation left her in a thoughtful mood for the better part of the day. She didn’t even snark at the Crownguard siblings when Luxanna dragged her brother in to cheer him up. Apparently big bulky warriors and cold weather didn’t go well together. Must be all the metal he was wearing.

Having a sweet tooth, on the other hand, appeared quite common. One by one, the tough ones appeared; Darius and Draven first, but they were her regulars anyway, Jarvan in the company of Xin Zhao (though the latter was slightly disappointed that she didn’t have any Ionian confectioneries), Gangplank who placed an order for, you guessed it, an orange cake, Yasuo, who relied solely on her goodwill because he was, as usual, completely broke and the list could go on. She drew the line at Pantheon, because the Rakkor warrior always tried to use the opportunity to copy her cakes.

Not everyone came to buy. Zyra, though not one for sweets, brought her a spiky plant, that fit the decor and wriggled its leaves happily when she hummed to it and seemed to really like on the counter.

A more unexpected guest bearing gifts was Taric, who chattered amicably about good vibes and helpful energies running through the shop and left several crystals that should, in theory, amplify the good energies. Morgana waved him off with a smile and almost immediately decided to “accidentally” break them as soon as she could. They gave her a headache and made Thorny squirm uncomfortably in its pot – as nice as the gem knight was, he often forgot that the crystals and the magic were slightly different in this realm, leading to some miscalculations in his more experimental crystal compositions.

The rest of the day passed without anything worth noting. She was about to close up shop, already packing away the remaining cakes and pastries when she heard a chime, but not the sound of the little silver bell hanging at the door.

She looked up to see one of the Celestials, the Wanderer wobble in, oddly weightless as he – he or it? – approached the counter and gave a friendly toot. She didn’t speak foghorn, but that sounded like a greeting.

“Good evening, Bard. I was just closing. Can I do something for you?” she asked, watching the creature curiously. She could see some of his little companions – what were they called again? teeps? peeps? ah, yes. meeps – peer out from his bushy beard, making soft, whispering sounds.

Bard tooted again, this time adding a bit of chiming to the sound. It was very pleasant to listen to and Morgana could tell that there were thoughts forming at the edge of her mind – blurry pictures, half-thoughts, not enough to make recognizable ideas -, but couldn’t tell what he was saying.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

Bard tried again, the half-thoughts more insistent this time, but try as she might, the moment she concentrated on them, they slipped out from her grasp.

After a few more tries, Bard made an exaggerated gesture of thinking, then started pacing dramatically, the sight somewhat comical thanks to the little meeps who, not wanting to feel left out, started pacing on his shoulders.

Then he stopped abruptly, turned to Morgana and started slowly gesturing. He held up two fingers patiently until she picked up on his intent.

“Oh. I was never good at guessing games,” she admitted with a resigned sigh. This was going to take a while like this. “Let’s see. Two words? First word...”

It took less time than she imagined, which could be chalked up to Bard’s excellent gesturing and the suggestions swimming at the edge of her thoughts still, but it was hardly the quickest conversation she ever had.

She stared at her little notepad long after Bard had left, rolling the small, colourful gem under her palm that he left as part of the payment. She got her first commission at the new shop: a banana cake for Soraka, because an anniversary (???) was coming up and she was lonely. She wrote multiple question marks after the word, because Bard couldn’t explain to her what sort of anniversary was coming, but it appeared important for the celestials.

No matter what the occasion was, Bard had described the cake quite clearly – Morgana was still absolutely baffled how he managed that – and set a clear deadline, so she couldn’t complain. Besides, she liked Soraka. The Star Child was, they all agreed, a very likeable person. It would be the opposite of a chore to make something that will cheer her up.

She glanced at the clock. Well, time to get to work.

Special cakes didn’t bake themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something always goes wrong on the first day - this time, it was Taric's crystals causing some communicational difficulties at the end.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment - or a suggestion about what champions should make an appearance and I'll try to include them.


	14. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Series reboot coming soon.

As it says on the tin.

I have multiple additional chapters planned out, but as you must have seen, I have not updated this collection in a long time. I jumped into writing with no planning and very little thought and as time went on I realized that there are a lot of things I want to go back and change, but I couldn't because the story would fall apart. I am much too fond of this little pocket universe to just drop it, but I can't carry on dragging along things that I don't like.

So I will mark this story complete and reboot it.

I don't even know if anyone still reads this or not, but as the point is to turn over to a new leaf and make the new story better than the old one, I'm curious: What are the things you'd like to change? What would you like to see more of?

 

Let me finish this with a heartfelt thank you to everyone who read this story and commented. It means a lot to me. Thank you once again and see you soon in another story.


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